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A CARDINAL SIN 


HUGH CONWAY 


Author of “ CALLED BACK,” ” DARK DAYS,” 
Etc., Etc. 


Entered at the Post Office, V.Y , as second-class matter. 
Copyright, 188J by John W Lot«ll Co. 


NEW-YORK 


loHN-W - Lovell - Company ■»■ 

R16 VESEY street 


CURRENfT R standard LITERKTURI 


V 5), 14, No 715, Feb. 19, 1886. Annual Subscription |SO.OO 



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A CARDINAL SIN 




BY 

HUGH CONWAY 

(F. J.'^ARGUS) 

AUTHOR OR “CfliluED BACK,” ETC. 






NEW YORK: 

jOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 & 16 Vesey Street. 






HUGH CONWAY’S WORKS 


CONTAINED IN LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 

' NO. 

429 Called Back, ....... 

462 Dark Days, ....... 

612 Carriston’s Gift, . , . • , , 

617 Paul Vargas : a Mystery, , ... « 

631 A Family Affair, . . , » . , 

667 Story of a Sculptor, ..... 

672 Slings and Arrows, . . . . , . 

715 A Cardinal Sin, . ... . . 


PRICE. 

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TR0W"8 

fWNTBNC AND BOOKBINDING COMWI9V 
NEW YORK. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


CHAPTER I. 

U P AND D OWN.” 

We have heard of men whose temperament is such that it 
enables them to receive intelligence of the severest re- 
verses of fortune, of the defeat of most cherished hopes, 
without even the movement of a muscle betraying how the 
news affects them. As huge misfortunes often stun with 
their shocks, and as pride is a great sustainer, we may be- 
lieve such men do exist ; but I have yet to find the Stoic 
who can bear the petty injuries and grievances of every- 
day life without complaining. Such a character is more 
than mortal, and even when found I shall decline to be- 
lieve in it until I have seen its behavior when kept waiting 
on a winter’s night at Sleeford Junction — that junction so 
comfortless that the very trains themselves appear to keep 
away from it as long as they can. 

Sleeford Junction is in Westshire, and Westshire, as we 
know, is in the west of England. At first sight, the idea 
of Sleeford being a junction of any importance seems pre- 
posterous. The fast trains on the great main line clash 
through it scornfully. If you are waiting there at night, 
you see, miles away in the distance, it seems, a red light — 
in another minute there is a roar, a rattle, a rush of wind ; 
and, shrinking back as far as you can from the edge of 
the platform, you see for a second a confused blur of 
carriages — then looking along the line, you find the tail- 
light a mile away. Then you collect yourself, and try to 
imagine what collision with the express means. 

Although the flying trains spurn Sleeford, there are 
plenty of slower ones which show it favor, because from 
the south of the main line runs a little offshoot of a rail- 
way which takes people to a fashionable and rising water- 


A CARDINAL SIN 


I 

ing-place ; while from tlie north runs another useful little 
line, which opens up a fertile valley, famous for all sorts 
of dairy produce, at the end of which valley is a good, old- 
fashioned, sleepy cathedral town — too large a place for 
railways to overlook. These are the substantial reasons 
pleaded by Sleeford for the necessity of its existence. It 
is just possible there may be a village from which the junc- 
tion takes its name ; but it is supposed to be miles awa)'^ 
and, as nobody knows anything about it, need not be con- 
sidered. 

Sleeford Junction is a terrible place. The trains never 
seem to fit in. You get out there hopefully, having puz- 
zled out the time-table and found your train should start 
at once. But it never does ; and the man who knows the 
nature of the place makes up his mind to wait — trusting it 
may be only twenty minutes — praying it may not be an 
hour. 

It is an uncovered junction, and the winds of heaven 
seem to imitate the railways and join issue there. They 
blow round every corner ; they ignore the rights of leeward 
places ; they drive you at last into the general waiting- 
room, whose whitewashed wall hurls a cheerful text of 
Scripture at you, and where, most likely, two or three per- 
sons give evidence of the efficacy of the sacred quotation 
by hiding the fire from you altogether, or push their chairs, 
with an injured, scraping sound, back some three inches. 
In a very short time you begin to realize what waiting at 
Sleeford Junction means, and think it well, if you are a 
right-minded man, that there is no refreshment-room at- 
tached. The temptation to drown one’s woes would be too 
great. 

On a certain night in December, 187 — , there were not 
many complaining travellers waiting on the down, or north 
side of the junction. Except on those days which are 
market days in Blacktown, the large city where so much 
of the valley-produce is disposed of, there is little traffic 
over the branch line. Often the last train takes back only 
one or two passengers, and, on this particular occasion, 
there seemed to be but one who had any right to objurgate 
the railway management. The up train might bring some 
more ; and it was the up train that was waited for. You 
may be certain that at Sleeford Junction you were always 
kept waiting for the up or the down train. 

It was a cold, clear, frosty night. The wind was not so 
scathing as usual, or the detained traveller was wrapped up 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


5 


well enough to defy it. At any rate, he seemed to prefer 
the open air to the comforts of the waiting-room. He sat 
on the edge of a luggage truck, drumming his feet against 
the ground to keep them warm, and smoked like one who 
finds tobacco a friend and a comforter. 

This man, as far as outward appearances went, might 
have been anytliing — except, perhaps, a duke or a pauper. 
His clothes were good, but not fashionable. They were of 
dark blue rough cloth, and, as his coat was of the kind 
which is called a pea-jacket, there was something seafar- 
ing in his look, although an ordinary felt round-topped hat 
neutralized this impression. He wore no gloves — his hands 
had no doubt been hardened by exposure and, as he raised 
his lingers to his pipe, you might have seen that the shirt 
he wore was of dark flannel. Thick, strong boots and a 
woollen wrap round his throat completed his attire. 

The light on the Sleeford platform is not very good, but 
it showed his face fairly well — a face with strongly-marked 
features, yet not an unkind face ; a shrewd face, but not 
the face of a rogue. He wore a thick, closely-cut beard, 
here and there touched with gray ; although his age could 
not have been much over forty. If you had travelled in 
the same carriage with that man, and amused yourself, as 
I often do, by speculating as to the station and manner of 
life of your fellow-traveller, you would have decided he had 
spent his best years abroad, had worked hard at his calling, 
and, judging from his comfortable look, not unsuccessfully. 
If you had talked to him you would certainly have said 
something about the colonies. 

He sat on the truck, kicking his heels with natural im- 
patience ; then, his pipe going out, he drew out a knife 
and a plug of tobacco, cut a sufficient quantity of dark- 
looking fragments to refill the bowl, and, as a porter with 
a lantern happened to be passing, hailed him and asked for 
a light. There was a sligiit American twang in his speech 
— a sort of acquired, not a natural flavor. The porter 
opened his lantern, and the down-train man puffed until 
liis coarse tobacco was aglow. 

Thank you, mate,” he said, good-temperedly ; “have a 
pipe yourself ? ” 

“ ’Gainst rules,” answered the porter. 

“ Put a piece in your pocket — you won’t get such stuff 
in England, I guess.” He cut off a large piece of tobacco, 
which was gratefully accepted. 

“Now tell me,” he said, “is this waiting about at this 


6 


A CAI^DIiVAL SIN'. 


dog-liolc of a place a necessity ; or is it pure cussed 
ness ? 

“ Up-train late. Start as soon as she comes in,” answered 
the porter, employing the usual formula. 

“ Nice one-horse kind of working,” growled the traveller. 

Know the country about here ?” he asked, quickly. 

“Westshire man, sir — all my life, sir.” 

“ Where’s Redhills ? I want to get there.” 

The porter gave him another look, and mentally decid- 
ing his condition in life could not be called that of gentle- 
man, asked, “What do you want at Redhill’s ? ” 

The traveller laughed — apparently at the man’s curiosity. 

“ Perhaps I’ve got business there ; perhaps I want to 
see the master ; perhaps 1 intend to buy the estate. Now 
you’re answered, answer me.” 

The inquisitive porter was puzzled. He knew that some 
gentlemen dress strangely ; so he thought it well to atone 
for his rudeness by extra civility. 

“ Lies midway between Brackley and Longmere, sir. 
Best go on to Longmere.” 

“ That’s what I wanted to know. I suppose we shall 
get to Longmere some time to-night ?” 

“Up-train signalled,” said the porter, slipping over the 
side of the platform and crossing the line nimbly. 

There were three or four passengers by the up-train, 
whose destination appeared to be the same as the man’s 
who was waiting. They crossed the bridge and reached 
the other side, where all save one plunged into the wait- 
ing-room. The exception was evidently a personage of 
some importance. Our friend the porter followed him ob- 
sequiously, bearing his rug and bag, and the station-mas- 
ter, stepping out of his office, saluted him with the greatest 
respect. He was a tall man, of some fifty years, handsome 
and erect, with gentleman unmistakably stamped upon him. 
No porter, however ignorant, would have presumed to an- 
swer his question with another. After all, one of the greatest 
gifts a man can have is a fine presence. It has taken more 
people to fortune than intellect has borne there. 

The new-comer acknowledged the station-master’s salute 
shortly. 

“Why don’t you start the train, Jones?” he demanded, 
imperiously. 

“ Express must pass first, sir ; and some trucks must be 
shunted.” 

“ This place grows worse and worse. I shall myself ap- 


A CARDINAL SIN 


7 


peal to the directors, and insist upon a change in the work- 
ing.” 

The way in which he pronounced the words “myself” 
and “ insist” appeared to amuse the man who sat on the 
truck. He gave vent to a low chuckle, and, turning to his 
friend the porter, who was standing near him, said, in an 
undertone — 

“ It does a fellow good to hear such an almighty swell 
as that. Now, who may he be ?” 

“ That’s Philip Tremaine Bourchier, Esq., M. P.,” an- 
swered the porter, with awe in his voice. 

The man on the truck started slightly. He leaned for- 
ward and scanned the features of the M. P. as well as he 
could in the dim light — scanned them with so much inter- 
est that the porter felt even greater pleasure in holding 
the luggage of such a distinguished person. 

The down-train man continued to gaze at Mr. Bourchier, 
who walked up and down the platform until the porter in- 
formed that gentleman the train was about to start, con- 
ducted him to his carriage, saw to his comfort, and, doubt- 
less, retired gratified. The little knot of third-class passen- 
gers emerged from the waiting-room, and took their places. 
Then a sudden thought seemed to strike the down-train 
man. He jumped up quickly and ran to the ticket-office. 
Business was suspended, and the pigeon-hole barred by the 
little wooden slide. He knocked, but met with no response. 
In retracing his steps he met the porter. 

“ I want to change my ticket,” he said. 

“You’ve no time for changing tickets. Train’s just mov- 
ing. Look alive, or you’ll be here all night.” 

The porter was right — the train was in motion. The 
traveller caught up his little hand-bag, ran after the train, 
opened the door of the first compartment he could, and 
sprung in, regardless of railway by-laws. It was done 
in a second, but in that second he noticed that he had 
chosen the compartment adjoining the one occupied by 
Mr. Bourchier. He threw himself on the seat and began 
tugging at his beard, as if to assist thought. 

“Just my luck,” he said. “Why didn’t I think of chang- 
ing my ticket at first ? Why didn’t I get in the same car- 
riage without a ticket ? Then I suppose he’d have turned 
me out. I must see him to-night, someiiow. I heard him 
tell the fellow at the station to take care of his bag, he was 
going off by train again early to-morrow. So I shall miss 
him, and have my journey for nothing. If I try and speak 


s 


A CAJ?D/jVAL SJJV. 


to him when he gets out of the train, he won’t be botiiered 
with me.” 

The man fidgeted about, and looked angrily at the par- 
tition which separated him from Mr. Bourchier. He threw 
the window down and saw by the light of tlie moon the 
various roadside objects flitting by. 

“ I don’t see why I shouldn’t do it,” he said. “ This old 
train runs precious slow, and it’s but a step. Guess he’s 
not likely to shoot — Englishmen don’t without warning. 
It’s foolish, but I’ll do it. Let’s see everything is safe first.” 

He opened his warm pea-coat and satisfied himself that 
a thick blank pocket-book was safe in the breast of it. 
Then he buttoned it carefully, tucked the ends of his com- 
forter in tightly, and opened the door of the carriage. He 
could see the foot-board plainly enougli in the moonliglit, 
and the large brass handles gleamed brightly. He was a 
hard-headed man, strong and confident — the danger in 
passing from one carriage door to another seemed trifling. 
He stepped out, and, clinging by the brasses, shut the 
door, even managing to turn the handle. 

I imagine there can be nothing more startling to a 
traveller — a traveller sitting alone in one corner of a rail- 
way carriage — his rug round his knees, his cigar in his 
mouth, and his own thoughts miles away — than to hear a 
sudden tapping at the window, where, glancing around, he 
sees not the double of himself who always rides side by 
side with him, but the face of another man. Mr. Bourchier 
was not a timid man, but his start of horror may easily be 
understood. For a second or two he gazed helplessly at 
the would-be intruder, but as the tapping continued, he 
concluded there was some object at it, so throwing off his 
rug he rose and approached the window. Had anyone 
been with him he might have noticed that before doing so 
Mr. Bourchier transferred something from the breast of 
his coat to the loose side pocket where it could be readily 
got at. Then he opened the window. 

What are you doing there ? ” he asked the man out- 
side. ^‘If you mean robbery, you have mistaken your 
man.” 

The outsider laughed so pleasantly, that Mr. Bourchier’s 
fears on that score were quite dispelled. 

“ Better let me get in,” he said, “ then I’ll tell you how 
I got here.” 

Although no man has a right to put himself in such a 
predicament, clinging outside a carriage window is sup- 


A CAI^DI/VAL SIN, 


9 


posed to be a position too perilous to admit of parley ; so, 
without saying more, Mr. IBourchier drew aside, while his 
visitor entered through the window in a most undignified 
way, and then seated himself, smiling triumphantly at the 
success which liad attended his efforts. 

Mr. Bourchier was a man with whom few dared to take 
liberties. His frown was very unpleasant, his mouth was 
a hard one, and at times his light-blue eyes could w^ear a 
merciless look. Tramps and poachers whose fate it was 
to stand before the magistrates, always, if they knew the 
district, congratulated themselves when he was absent 
from the bench. Therefore, you may imagine the look he 
cast on the intruder was not a sweet one, nor was his voice 
the kindest. 

“Now, sir,” he said, “if you have recovered yourself, 
kindly explain the meaning of this intrusion — or, perhaps, 
you would prefer to make the explanation to the guard 
when next we stop.” 

The intruder bent forward. 

“ Mr. Bourchier,” he said, speaking without the slightest 
trace of levity, and with an earnestness which surprised 
his listener — “Mr. Bourchier, I learned who you were at 
the junction. I heard you say you were going away again 
to-morrow. I have come many miles to see you on an im- 
portant matter ” 

“It must be an important matter indeed, when you risk 
your life to obtain an interview,” said Mr. Bourchier, with 
sarcasm. 

“ It is important. Shall I tell you who I am ?” 

“ There is no necessity. People can’t act in the foolish 
W’ay you have acted without justifying their conduct to 
the proper authorities. I shall learn your name in good 
time.” 

Tlie man’s face flushed — a hot retort seemed trembling 
on his lips, but he stifled it, and his voice was almost as 
calm as that of the sarcastic gentleman facing him. 

“Had you asked me twelve months ago my name, I 
should have told you I had no riglit to any name. To-day 
my name is John Bourchier, and I am the rightful owner 
of an estate known as Redhills, Westshire.” 

Philip Tremaine Bourchier was a man who was glad to 
think that his complexion did not change with the tem- 
perature — growing alternately red and white like that of 
common people. There was seldom much color in his 
face, but now, for the moment, it became absolutely blood- 


lo 


A CARDIN-AL SIJV. 


less. For some time he seemed deprived of speech. Then 
he made an effort and recovered himself, as was but d;ie 
from a man of his position and station in the world. It 
may be a look, something like triumph, in his companion’s 
eyes hastened that recovery. He spoke with dignity. 

“Without disputing you are the person who thinks he 
is entitled to bear that name, I can only trust that for your 
own sake you are going to make no attempt to revive that 
preposterous claim.” 

“Mr. Bourchier,” said the other, “no doubt all former 
proceedings are family history to you. You know what, 
and what alone was wanting.” 

Mr. Bourchier bowed stiffly. 

“ Then I have only to tell you it has been found. My 
poor old father’s life-long search was at last successful — I 
believe it was joy that killed him.” 

His listener paled again. 

“ Why come to me ? ” he asked in a strange, hoarse 
voice. “ Take your forgeries to some pettifogging solici- 
tor ; let him try and trade on them.” 

“ I hate lawyers. I am a plain, rough fellow ; my head 
was never turned by what my old father called his rights. 
I didn’t believe in them till a very short time ago. Besides, 
the thing is so simple — no lawyer’s advice is wanted. 
Look here, Mr. Bourchier, you are a clever man ; it needs 
little law to tell you that this slip of paper makes me the 
owner of Redhills. 

As he spoke he extracted a long, narrow document from 
his pocket-book and handed it to Mr. Bourchier. No 
sense of dignity could prevent that gentleman’s hand 
from trembling as he stood up and, holding the paper 
under the light, slowly deciphered it. His lips twitched, 
and only the fact of his remembering that the paper was 
but a copy prevented him from tearing it into fragments. 
He read it again, then returned it to its owner, and re- 
seated himself without speaking. 

His companion awaited Mr. Bourchier’s pleasure. He 
sat looking at him with an expression of curiosity, but not 
unkindness. Mr. Bourchier seemed in no hurry to speak. 
He was thinking of many things, and his thoughts, what- 
ever they were, lent his cold, blue eyes an expression 
which few men had ever seen there. His right hand 
was in the pocket of his overcoat. 

The self-styled John Bourchier had been in peril on 
many occasions, but he little suspected never in such dire 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


11 


peril ns nt the present moment. He little knew what the 
slackening of the train’s speed, before Mr. Bourchier had 
quite completed his round of thought, meant to him. He 
never dreamed that his silent companion was mentally- 
weighing pros and cons, and endeavoring to decide 
whether an attempted forcible entry of a roughly-clad 
man into a first-class compartment, while the train was at 
full speed, would justify an extreme act He thought it 
would ; but time must be considered, and time was slip- 
ping away. Mr. Bourchier’s fingers moved uneasily in 
his pocket. Then there was another thing he wanted to 
know — a thing he must know — before he decided that his 
theory was tenable. The question he would have asked 
was rising to his lips when the decreasing speed of the 
train told him it was too late. 

He clenched his teeth for a moment, then removing his 
right hand from his pocket, commenced to fold up his 
railway rug. 

“This is Brackley,” he said, coldly. “ I get out here.” 

“ Mr. Bourchier,” said his companion, earnestly, “ you 
will see me in the morning and talk this matter over ? ” 

“ I would rather not. I can see no use in it.” 

“ I don’t want to be unfriendly, if I can help it, sir.” 

A grim smile flickered on Mr. Bourchier’s lips. A man 
who comes to turn you out of your home and possessions 
can scarcely be friendly. The train was almost at a stand- 
still — Mr. Bourchier rose from his seat with a curious un- 
definable expression in his eyes. He spoke, and his voice 
was rather husky — his accents not so clearly cut as usual. 

“ Then I will see you. Come early. Where do you stay 
to-night ? ” 

“ I thought of going on to Longmere.” 

“ You had better go to Redton. It is close to my place. 
There is a very good inn there.” 

“ How far is it from here ?” 

“ Some six miles — I will drive you there if you like.” 

“ Now that’s hearty ! I call that very kind. I know we 
shall square this all right, Mr. Bourchier” — the speaker 
held out his large hand in token of goodwill. 

Philip Bourchier just placed the tips of his fingers in 
it, withdrawing them hastily as a railway official opened 
the carriage door, and bowed as- the great man stepped 
out. 

His fellow traveller followed. “Got in the wrong car- 
riage,” he said, in answer to an inquiring look — “here’s a 


12 


A CARDhVAL SUV, 


shilling — keep the change.” Then he went in search of his 
hand-bag, left behind him in Ids transit. 

A smart groom with horse and dog-cart was waiting out- 
side the station for Mr. Bourchier. When driving at night 
the groom generally sat by his master — the cart ran easier. 

Open the back seat and ride behind, William,” said 
Mr. Bourchier. “ I have promised to give a man a lift to 
Redton,” he added, although as a rule he did not volunteer 
any reason for his commands. 

The man came out. 

“You can get up by me,” said Mr. Bourchier, with that . 
peculiar intonation in his voice which some people adopt 
when speaking to those greatly their inferiors. 

The man did as he was told ; William the groom let go 
the horse’s head, and the dog-cart rolled quickly along the 
road — the Redton road. The carriage lamps were lit, for 
although it was a moonlight night, the path in places was 
shaded and gloomy. 


CHAPTER II. 

FROM TWO POINTS OF VIEW. 

The six miles of road between Brackley and Redton is 
delightfully picturesque, but terrible in its gradient. As 
you drive over it, and pause now and again at some of its 
most elevated parts, you are filled with two feelings — ad- 
miration at tljc beautiful view you get over Westshire, and 
pity for your horse. He, poor creature, driven in blinkers, 
is quite unable to understand your admiration, and can 
only hope your pity will allow him to take his own time 
up those liills. 

It is a terrible road — you get a bit of level ground after 
leaving Brackley, then the up-and-down system begins. 
If you are not descending a hill you are ascending one, 
and the worst hill of the lot is the one about half way, 
called Steepsides, but better known by those who have to 
climb it often as “ Bellows-to-mend ” — a very significant 
term, which needs no explanation. You go down- a hill 
called Littlesteep — an ironical name which evidences West- 
shire wit — before you come to Steepsides, then the road 
skirts the bottom of the -hill for -some distance, rising grad- 
ually, until, tired of its tardy progress, it turns round at an 


A CARBIA'AL SJ.V. 


13 


acute angle and goes in an uncompromising Roman sort 
of a way straight on its errand, which errand appears to be 
that of going down the other face of Steepsides almost as 
quickly as it got up. Now, if you have the power of draw- 
ing mental landscapes, and provided my words are well 
chosen, you will see that the acute angle where the road 
begins to grow steep forms the apex of a gigantic triangle, 
the plane of which is Steepsides, and the base a line drawn 
from the bottom of Littlesteep to the upper line of road on 
the former hill. 

Even a donkey knows that two sides of a triangle are 
greater than the third side. Westshire folks not being 
donkeys, from time immemorial a zigzag footpath had 
been cut or worn up the base line, and a pedestrian, by 
taking a stiff pull up it, could cut off the best part of a mile 
of the road ; so most people under sixty, whose lungs were 
in working order, walked that way. 

These descriptions are given with the accuracy of an 
ordnance survey, that you may be able to exactly realize 
the position of the first witness of some curious events 
which occurred upon the night when Mr. Bourchier, M.P., 
was kind enough to give a strange man a lift from Brack- 
ley to Redton. It is from William the groom’s point of 
view we look first. 

He was a stolid young man — irreproachable in appear- 
ance, as a gentleman’s servant should be, and obedient, as 
Mr. Bourchier’s servants were bound to be. He knew his 
business well, and upon an emergency could show he was 
not a fool. He sprang up to the back seat, contentedly 
enough ; wondered a little why his master had troubled to 
pick up the man, opined the man wasn’t much of it, be- 
cause master gave him such short sharp answers if he made 
a natural remark about the country they were passing 
through. But this was none of William’s business, and as 
the occupants of tlie front seat lapsed into entire silence, 
William ceased to think of them, and occupied his mind 
wdth his own private concerns. 

The horse picked his way down Littlesteep, at the bottom 
of which Mr. Bourchier drew rein. “ You had better walk 
up the path, William,” he said ; “ the horse seems rather 
tired.” 

William touched his hat, and jumped down with an alac- 
rity he did not feel. Grooms, as a rule, don’t like walking 
— their legs have been educated to higher aims — moreover, 
it was a fad of the master’s ; the horse was strong and fresh 


14 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


enough to take an Easter Monday wagonette and contents 
up Steepsides without troubling. So William commencjed 
his tortuous climb, feeling it was a work of supererogation. 

Had Mr. Bourchier not been so careful of his horse, dnd 
had William been left undisturbed on his back seat, he 
would have been surprised at hearing his master, for the 
first time on that drive, break silence voluntarily. He 
would have heard him say abruptly to his companion, 

Have you a son ? ” and W'ould have heard the man by his 
side, who was, no doubt, chafing at Mr. Bourchier's unmis- 
takable assumption of superiority before his servant, reply 
with a curt “ No.” 

William, of course, did not hear this. If he had he 
might have thought his master was taking a kindly inter- 
est in the stranger’s belongings. He struggled manfully 
up the zigzag, rested for a moment at the top, and then 
walked on up the road. Now he was afoot, he thought he 
might as well go on a bit and spare the horse. Fie looked 
back wistfully several times, and at last was rewarded by 
seeing the lights of the dog-cart approaching. He gave a 
sigh of relief, and continued to walk on at the side of the 
road. Master would see him, stop, and pick him up. 
Soon he heard the sound of wheels, the ring of hoofs, and 
wondering what the doose master were up to tearing along 
at such a pace, he stopped to hail him, if necessary. It 
was only when the dog-cart was close to him that the idea 
entered his head that there was no one in it. 

It was too late to think of stopping the horse ; and he 
stood struck stupid, he afterward said, as the empty vehicle 
flashed past him. “Men can take care of themselves — - 
bosses can’t,” was an unspoken axiom of William’s ; so, 
without more ado, he turned and pursued the retreating 
carriage. It was not such a foolish action as it seemed to 
be— he shrewdly suspected that any sensible ‘horse would 
soon becomp aware of the folly of running away up “Bel- 
lows-to-mend.” This horse, he knew, was a sensible one. 
William was quite right, for by the time he was nearly 
puffed, and his legs ready to drop off by reason of the iu:- 
proper use they had been put to, he came upon the dog- 
cart, motionless, in thp centre of the road ; the horse in^a 
condition very much like his own, just exercising sufficient 
force to prevent the dog-cart taking its revenge, and run- 
^way down hill with him. Everything seemed in- 
tact, excepting that tlie whip was gone. 

William gathered up tiio reins, mounted the box, and 


A CARDIA^AL SIN’. 


15 


retraced his steps down the hill. No damage being done 
to horse or carriage, lie did not think much could be amiss 
with tlie late occupants ; but it was well to ascertain as 
quickly as possible. From force of habit he took up the 
rug, which lay under his feet, and drew it over his knees. 
Then a curious thing occurred — a thing which William 
has never yet been able to explain. He noticed the edge 
of the rug was wet, and, after raising it, his glove was also 
wet. So he leaned forward and held his hand in front of 
the lamp, and his stolidity gave way when he saw that his 
dogskin glove was covered with blood. “’Tis an accident 
— an ’orrible accident ! So help me ! ” said William, and, 
dreading the worst, he drove down Steepsides faster than 
he ever had dared to drive before — blaming himself for 
not going after the men before the horse, but also com- 
forting himself by thinking how handy the trap would 
come in. 

He kept a sharp look out, but saw nothing until he 
reached a point about a hundred yards from that acute 
angle where the steeper road commences. There, in the 
moonlight, he saw a tall, erect figure standing near a dark 
mass lying in the road, and William’s heart rejoiced that 
master was all right, anyway. He stopped the horse, and 
in the light of the lamp Mr. Bourchier turned round with 
a pale, stern face. Flis hat appeared crushed out of shape, 
Ills dark coat covered with dust, his whole appearance clis- 
hevelled. 

“ Accident, sir ? ” asked William, in awe, but touching 
lus hat, nevertheless. 

“ No, far worse,” said Mr. Bourchier, in a grave, solemn 
voice. “ I have shot the man.” 

You might, as William said, have knocked him off his 
scat with a feather. 

“ Shot him, sir ! ” he repeated, in amazement. 

“ He tried to rob — I believe to murder me,’^ said his 
master, in the same grave way. “ I was bound to do it in 
self-defence. If I have been too hasty, may Heaven for- 
give me ! ” 

“Amen,” said William, who was not without religious 
feelings. “ Shall I drive to Redton for the constable, 
sir ? ” he continued. 

“ I am afraid it’s not a case for a constable,” answered 
Mr. Bourchier. “The poor fellow is stone dead.” 

William offered no further suggestion, but waited com- 
mands. His master took one of the lamps out of the 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


i6 

socket, and, holding it in his hands, bent over the dead 
man. He placed his hand on his heart, felt his pulse, and 
then rose. 

“ He is quite dead. Turn round and back the wheels 
into the bank ; then get down and help me — we can’t leave 
him here.” 

William obeyed, shuddering as he did so, yet admiring 
his master’s nerve. 

“ Give me the rug,” said Mr. Bourchier. 

‘‘It is all over blood, sir.” 

Mr. Bourchier started. ^ 

“Nonsense,” he said, sharply if so, it is mine — give 
me the rug.” 

William took it up by the bottom hem and gave it to his 
master, who threw it over the prostrate form. 

“Now raise him up,” he said. “ Place him in the cart, 
somehow. Find a piece of rope and lash him to the back.” 

The ghastly office was done — Mr. Bourchier’s hands 
were steady enough, but William’s trembled so that he 
was of little use. 

“Look about the road for an open knife,” said his mas- 
ter. “You will find one somewhere.” 

William obeyed, and soon found an open clasp knife — 
the same knife the man had used to cut his tobacco while 
sitting on the truck at Sleeford. He brought it to his 
master. 

“Put it just as it is under the box seat. Then get up 
and drive to Redton — knock up the constable — he will tell 
you what to do.” 

Well trained as William was, he felt inclined to rebel. 
To drive the remaining three miles with such a ghastly 
burden seemed more than duty demanded. It was only 
the sense of indignation which the discovery of that mur- 
derous looking knife had raised against the dead man 
which steeled him to undertake the task. 

“ What will you do, sir,” he asked. 

“I will walk,” said Mr. Bourchier, curtly. “You may 
come back and meet me — don’t go to the house and 
frighten them. Be as quick as you can. You can leave 
me one of the lamps.” 

As he handed him the lamp William could not help re- 
marking : 

“ What a mercy you had your pistol, sir.” 

“ Yes,” replied his master. “ Did you hear me fire ? The 
horse ran away at the report.” 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


^1 

‘‘Wind wns blowing down hill, sir, but T fancied I heard 
a shot— I didn’t give much heed— so many poachers about, 
sir.” 

“Well, be off — now — keep a look out for me as you 
come back.” 

William took the broken whip which he had found in 
two pieces near the scene of the tragedy — drew the lash 
across the horse’s back and went off as fast as he could, 
eager to get rid of the terrible thing that weighed down 
the back of the dog-cart. 

Mr. Bourchier remained alone with the lamp in his 
hand. He appeared to be in no hurry to leave the place. 
Perhaps the spot where one has taken human life — even in 
self-defence — has a strange fascination — or, what seemed 
more probable, Mr. Bourchier had lost some article of 
value in the struggle. Lamp in hand he commenced mak- 
ing circles which gradually grew wider, until the road no 
longer would hold them. He peered among the herbage 
at the side — he looked up into the trees, but, whatever he 
had lost, his search was unsuccessful. A muttered curse 
slipped out of his clinched teeth, and he turned his face 
toward home, breasting the hill with a firm brisk step. 
William returning from his dreary errand, met him before 
he had gone three parts of the way, and drove him to his 
house, the inmates of which were entirely ignorant of the 
tragic event of the night, and how nearly Mr. Bourchier 
had lost his life by the knife of an assassin. As he stepped 
from the carriage he said to William 

“ There will be an inquest — say as little as you can till 
Then.” 

William touched his hat and drove away to the stables, 
thinking of his strange experiences on that eventful night. 

There was another man who also had strange experi- 
ences that night, who saw certain events from another 
point of view. This was a man who lived in an untidy 
hovel in the poorest part of Redton. Poor as his abode 
Avas, there were people who wondered how he managed to 
pay its miserable rent, for Jim Stokes was seldom seen 
doing work of any kind. He was one of those gentlemen 
who are generally associated with hairy caps with a turned- 
up flap at each of the four cardinal points, and with lurch- 
ing dogs, ferrets, etc. In the daytime he loafed about 
smoking his pipe with a defiant as-good-as-ycu sort of 
look, but after nightfall when he strolled abroad he was of 
a. peculiarly bashful disposition. On this particular night 


i8 


A CARDINAL SIN 


lie was taking one of his little rambles, and was very near 
the acute angle of the Steepsides road, when he saw the 
lights of a carriage approaching. His natural timidity in- 
duced him to plunge headlong into the undergrowth 
which covers the hill — his humility threw him into a re- 
cumbent attitude, and his desire to be about his business 
made him watch for the carriage to pass. Then his ex- 
periences began. 

They began with annoyance, for the tall gentleman 
driving — the one who was farthest from him — drew rein 
exactly opposite to the spot where Mr; Stokes lay upon 
his stomach. Then he began talking to his companion, 
but Mr. Stokes could not hear what he said ; only he saw 
the- man near him shake his head. Then the tall gentle- 
man looked up the road, down the road, even on each side 
of the road, and Mr. Stokes trembled as his eyes met the 
eyes of that dreaded magistrate, Mr. Bourchier. But Mr. 
Bourchicr saw him not, and recovering from his uneasiness 
he heard the words, “light a cigar,” and, although the 
horse was still stationary, saw the reins transferred to the 
short man’s hands. Then a most curious thing happened 
— the tall gentleman put his hand into his pocket, for his 
cigar-case it seemed — but there Avas a sudden flash — a re- 
port — and the shorter man was swaying about in his seat, 
making a horrible sound with his lips. In a moment, with 
a dull thud, he fell on the road, and, although Mr. Stokes 
cared nothing for the piteous look in the eyes of a dying 
hare, the look on the fallen man’s face, as he saw it in the 
moonlight, froze his blood. The perspiration rose under 
the poacher’s fur cap — it seemed like a horrible dream. 
So stupefied ho was, that he scarcely noticed that the fall- 
en man, with the remnant of life left him, thrust his hand 
into his breast, and threw some dark object as far from 
him as he, could. The whole thing was inexplicable to 
the hidden witness. But there were even more curious 
things to follow. 

With a generous disregard of his own safety, he had 
crept serpent-like through the undergrowth until he was 
close to the bank — a few yards from the fallen man. Then 
he saw more curious sights. 

Fie saw Mr. Bourchier take out a lamp from the socket, 
bend over the prostrate form, then rise with a look of grim 
satisfaction on his face, and replace the lamp. He saw him 
unbutton the dead man’s coat, search his pockets, and draw 
out a knife, which he opened and threw on the road. He 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


19 


saw him search again the pockets, and saw also a convul- 
sive movement of his lips, which personal experience told 
Mr. Stokes meant strong language. He saw him take a 
bundle from the dog-cart and carry it to where Mr. Stokes’s 
point of view ended, then return without it. He saw him 
take the whip out of the socket, lash the horse wildly until 
it sprang madly up the hill. He saw him break the whip 
in two, and throw tiie pieces on the road ; and then he saw 
him do a thing which, at another time, would have ap- 
pealed to Mr. Stokes's sense of humor — he saw him take 
off his hat and crush it flat, and, to put a climax to the 
curious scene, lie down and roll in the road. This last 
proceeding was so eccentric that the looker-on scarcely 
noticed him pick up the knife again and do a little mys- 
terious business witii his coat before he threw it from him 
as before. Then he heard approaching wheels, and he 
bashfully withdrew in his serpentine way to a safer dis- 
tance ; but not so far away but he could see all that Wil- 
liam saw, and a little more that happened after William 
had left. 

Then Mr. Stokes was so upset altogether that he felt en- 
tirely unfit for pursuing his profession that night, and got 
back to his hovel at Redton, revolving many things in his 
mind, or in that apology for a mind which dwells in a low, 
narrow forehead, generally covered by a fur cap. 


CHAPTER III. 

FAMILY HISTORY AND EARLY PEOPLE. 

In spite of Horace’s advice — to plunge boldly into the 
middle of what things you may have to tell — there is much 
to be said in favor of the New Testament method of be- 
ginning with a genealogy. It is, undoubtedly, a great 
temptation to strike at once into the middle of a situation, 
hoping you may arrest your reader’s attention and excite 
liis curiosity, but unfortunately, sooner or later, events 
which led up to that particular situation must be disclosed, 
and in nine cases out of ten, these events are embodied in 
family history — and all family history except one’s own is 
dull reading. Nevertheless, we must know something 
about the Bourchier family. This is indispensable, so the 
sooner the explanation is made the better. 


20 


A CAI^'VIjVAL sm. 


We are not called upon to descend the family tree, bO' 
low a certain Robert Bourchier. As he himself could 
have said but little about his own father, and nothing at 
all about his grandfather, we may draw the line at liim. 
After Robert Bourchier is history — before him fable and 
tradition. With these latter we have nothing to do. 

This Robert Bourchier, who was probably of French 
descent, amassed a large fortune. Ilis money was made 
by trade — in the principal seaport and town in the West of 
England— made l3y lionorable mercantile transactions his 
descendants boast — by traffic in slaves the detractors of 
the family assert. But, however gained, his Wealth must 
have been considerable, for in the year 1750 he retired 
from business, and acquired by purchase the large estate 
of Redhills, in Westshire. Robert Bourchier the first 
died in 1780. 

He begat Robert Bourchier the second, and several 
other children. No doubt the latter were suitably pro- 
vided for, as he left Redhills to his eldest son. 

Robert the second lived the life of a prosperous country 
gentleman. The family got well established, the taint of 
trade gradually disappearing, so that before his death the 
second owner of Redhills and his belongings were looked 
upon as county people. He was fortunate in marrying a 
woman of good family. She was not an heiress, but that 
fact mattered little, as his income was a large one — so large 
that he could save, and always be ready to pounce upon 
any land near his estate which came into the market. In 
this way, Redhills, with the additions Robert the second 
made to it, grew into a very fine property. 

Robert the second begat two sons, Digby'and Stephen 
— also three daughters who married and went to their le- 
spective places, where we may leave them. 

This Digby, the eldest son and presumptive heir, must, 
according to all accounts, have been a poor sort of a fel- 
low ; a weak, vacillating young man, easily led astray — one 
who gave his father much trouble. There are some inter- 
esting letters still existing in the family archives which 
show that before he was twenty he had been extricated, at 
considerable cost, from various scrapes. However, shortly 
after attaining that age he was engaged to be married to 
the daughter of a neighboring landowner, and his father 
fondly hoped his eldest son’s wild oats were all sown. But 
the marriage never took place. For some unknown reason 
the young lady cancelled the engagement. It cannot be 


A CARDIN'AL SI.V. 


21 


said whether Digby took his disappointment to heart or 
not, but it appears he left home fora time. He was away 
for a couple of years ; then he returned to Red hills, and 
shortly afterward, at the opening meet of the season, was 
thrown from his horse and was killed — perhaps the best 
thing that could have happened to him. 

Robert Bourchier survived his eldest son ten years. 
Upon his death, in 1820, his will was found to be dated at 
the time when Digby’s marriage seemed imminent. It 
gave Redhills to Digby for life, and after his death to his 
eldest son and his heirs ; and should Digby have no son, 
then to the testator’s second son, Stephen. Digby having 
died unmarried, the old man had not troubled to make a 
fresh will, as this one fulfilled all he wanted to do — left 
Redhills to Stephen. 

Stephen Bourchier’s reign was a long one, lasting until 
1853. He kept up family traditions, but distinguished 
himself in no marked way. Two events of note occurred 
during the thirty-three years he ruled. The first was, that 
underneath the red portion of the land, from which the 
estate took its name, iron had been found in large quanti- 
ties, on every ton of which, when raised, a good royalty 
was paid to the owner of the land. 

The second event was that, about ten years after Ste- 
phen’s accession, an absurd claim to the estate was brought 
forward. The claimant, a young man of two-and-twenty, 
in humble circumstances, stated that he was the lawfully 
begotten son of Digby Bourchier, and, under the will of 
Robert Bourchier the second, was entitled to Redhills 
and other landed property. The young man’s tale was 
plausible, as far as it went. Digby, he asserted, secretly 
married his mother early in the year 1808, at the latter 
end of which he was born. He accounted for his long 
silence as to his claims by the fact that his mother had 
ahvays been ignorant of her husband’s true position ; also 
that shortly after his death her mind became unhinged, 
and for years she had been hopelessly mad. Whether 
Digby Bourchier, in the few moments which elapsed be- 
tween the fall from his horse and his death, had managed 
to send her a message by some trusty hand, will never be 
known. 

The claimant’s story was scouted as preposterous — a 
clumsy attempt to extort money ; but if it was so, no 
covert overtures were made hinting that a compromise 
would be accepted. A writ of ejectment was served on 


22 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


Stephen Bourchier, and the case in due time came before 
the court. The way it collapsed was pitiable ; so weak 
was the documentary evidence tendered by the plaintiff. 
There were plenty of people to swear that for nearly two 
years Digby Bourchier and the claimant’s mother had 
lived as man and wife ; but no one could say when, where, 
or before whom the marriage ceremony had been per- 
formed. Indeed, so slight were the grounds for the action 
that, in nonsuiting the plaintiff, the judge made a few 
pointed remarks respecting solicitors who, apparently for 
the sake of costs, urged their clients to declare war with 
weapons so weak as these in their hands. So the claimant 
went back to obscurity, and Stephen sat unshaken in the 
seat of his fathers. 

The lord of Redhills was not a bad-hearted man. He 
had no doubt but that the claimant was Digby’s son ; so, 
when the excitement of the contest had subsided, he 
offered, through his lawyers, to make the young man a 
small yearly allowance, or to pay him down a sum of 
money to advance him in life. His lawyers — careful men — 
tacked on to this offer the condition that James Bourchier, 
as he called himself, should sign a document waiving his 
imaginary rights. The offer was respectfully declined, and 
the negotiation ended. 

Fifteen years afterward the claim w’as revived. Some 
fresh evidence was brought forward, which clearly showed 
that James Bourchier’s mother believed she was legally 
married. Yet the one thing was wanting, and, without it, 
the case collapsed as before. On this occasion there 
seemed to be more money behind the claimant, and it 
transpired that he Avas now a fairly well-to-do tradesman 
in a small northern town ; one who might have done bet- 
ter, people said, had he kept his money in his business 
instead of spending it in fruitless searches for a record 
Avhich did not exist, and in paying lawyers to conduct a 
hopeless case. 

But that was his own concern. He was an inoffensive, 
reticent man. He did not go about trumpeting his 
Avrongs. The strength of his conviction, the steadiness of 
his purpose, was known only to himself. He Avas com- 
monly known as Boucher. Probably the friends who had 
brought him up had discarded the two other letters, as they 
Frenchified the name ; and in those days Ave hated the 
French and their Avorks. So he answered to the name of 
Boucher, which was good enough to trade under, and 


A CARDINAL SIN 


23 


would serve until he took his own and ousted the younger 
branch of his family. 

Except for the tenacity of his belief that his father and 
mother were married, James Boucher, or Bourchier, had 
nothing to distinguish him from the ordinary tradesman. 
He married one of his own class — a worthy woman, who 
sighed deeply and often at her husband’s expensive mono- 
mania. She dared not attempt to dissuade him, for on 
one point he was adamant. His mother died in 1843 — 
died without any lucid interval in which she might have 
cleared up all doubts. 

James Boucher had but one child — a son. He was a 
high-spirited boy, of a roving turn, who, although from his 
earliest years carefully impressed with the fact that he was 
the rightful heir to a large estate, troubled little about it, 
and at the age of eighteen betook himself to America to 
carve out his own fortune. 

Stephen Bourchier was disturbed no more by the pre- 
posterous claim. In 1853 he turned his face to the wall 
and died, outliving his wife by several years. An artistic 
monument was erected to him in Redton Church, and his 
son, Philip Tremaine Bourchier, reigned at Redhills in his 
stead. There were other sons and daughters, but the 
family tradition of leaving the estate intact to the eldest 
son was preserved. 

Yet, tradition notwithstanding, there were many people 
who believed that Stephen Bourchier would disinherit his 
eldest son. Philip had neither been the best of sons, nor 
had he led the cleanest of lives. His father had paid 
large sums of money for him ; amounts he could pay with- 
out much trouble, but which he disliked having to pay ; 
for lie inherited some of the thrifty qualities of the founder 
of the family. Still, whatever he may have threatened or 
even intended to do, custom was too strong, and Redhills 
went the usual way. 

Like Prince Hal, Philip, when he succeeded to his king- 
dom, left the follies of his youth behind him. He married 
suitably, played the part of a county magnate, made him- 
self fairly popular, and manifested a new trait in the Bour- 
chier character — he became ambitious — politically ambi- 
tious. So well-rooted had the family become in Westshire 
that ten years after his father’s death he was elected, with- 
out opposition, one of the members for the division of the 
county in which Redhills is situate. 

But that small tradesman with a passion for litigation 


24 


A CAT^DJtNAL SIJV. 


had not let him rest in peace. In 1862 the case was once 
more before the court — once more lost by the claimant. 
Fresh and important evidence was threatened ; but little 
was forthcoming — so little that all James Boucher’s friends 
marvelled at his folly. But the man knew what he was 
about. His object was gained by the resuscitation of the 
case, which prevented the case being barred by reason of 
time, and stopped the so-called younger branch of the 
Bourchier family being confirmed in the possession of Red- 
hills, by the fact of the estate having been held undis- 
turbed for the period laid down by law as necessary to es- 
tablish a good title. 

Philip Bourchier paid what portion of costs he was called 
upon to pay, and cursed the base-born tradesman as he 
drew the check. He, like his father, was convinced that 
the claim was absurd ; yet it annoyed him. Once he had 
to raise some money on the land, for he was not such a 
thrifty man as his predecessors, and Parliament meant in- 
creased expenditure. Then he found that lenders were 
rather shy, or wanted a very high rate of interest for their 
money. A gentleman’s estate ought to be like Caesar’s 
wfife — above suspicion. He had not been troubled by 
James Boucher since 1862, and some little time ago he 
heard of the old man’s death, so trusted the annoyance and 
the bother had died with the claimant, for no one made 
any sign. 

It was just after the happy news of James Boucher’s 
decease that Philip Bourchier made a discovery which 
converted Avhat had hitherto been nothing more than a 
recurring annoyance into a sword of Damocles. In look- 
ing through old family papers, in quest of autographs, for 
a friend who collected such things, he found a sealed let- 
ter addressed to Mrs. Bourchier. It Avas dated on the 
very day his uncle lost his life ; the Avriter’s sudden death 
had, no doubt, preA^ented its being sent to its destination. 
It began, “ My dearest Avife,” and Avas signed, “Your af- 
fectionate husband, Digby.” These expressions of endear- 
ment alone Avould not have troubled Philip Bourchier 
much ; the terms “husband and Avife” may be but Avords, 
but one paragraph spoke of the baby, and said hoAV glad 
the Avriter Avas to think that neither father, mother, nor 
child could ev^er incur the Avorld’s censure, or blush for 
anything left undone. As he read this paragraph he 
knew that James Boucher was as legitimate as he Avas ; 
that if ever he succeeded in finding out where the mar- 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


25 

riage had taken place, Rcdhills would pass from Philip 
Bourcliier to the small tradesman. 

And this discovery was fresh and weighing like lead on 
Philip Bourchier’s mind on the night he drove a roughly- 
clad man from Brackley to Redton, when, in defence of his 
own life, he was compelled to slioot him on the road. 

The master of a house cannot return home in such a 
knocked-about state as Mr. Bourchier returned to Red- 
hills that night without creating considerable consterna- 
tion in his family. Not only did he bear outward and visi- 
ble traces of a severe struggle, but beneath his clothes was 
a slight stab in his left side, made by the assailant’s knife. 
Plis wife, daughters, and a son who was at home stared 
with open eyes as he told the tale of his adventure, and no 
doubt thanked the Providence which had so mercifully 
saved the head of the house from death. 

Plowever self-possessed a man may be, he cannot be ex- 
pected to be quite himself after such an encounter, so Mr. 
Bourchier cannot be blamed if he answered the volley of 
questions poured upon him curtly, and soon expressed a 
wish to retire to rest. When alone with his wife he begged 
her to say no more on the subject, at least for that night. 

“ I must be up by daylight,” he said. “ I lost my pocket- 
book in tlie struggle — and could not find it afterward.” 

“ Can’t one of t.he servants go and look for it ? ” asked 
his wife. 

“No, I must go myself. There is money in it and 
papers of value. Tell your maid to let them know that I 
want my horse at daybreak or a little before.” 

Mr. Bourchier was a man of iron nerve, and an invari- 
ably good sleeper. It was therefore somewhat startling for 
his wife to find herself awakened by her husband some 
hour or two after this conversation. 

“ I can’t sleep,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “ Get me 
some chloral — laudanum — anything.” 

There was chloral in the room. Mr. Bourchier took a 
dose heavy for one unaccustomed to its use ; and his wife 
lay awake until she heard his breathing grow regular, and 
knew that he slept. 

When she awoke in the morning he was still sleeping 
heavily. For a long time she would not disturb him, until, 
remembering his commands of the night previous, she 
dared not let him lie longer. She woke him, and in a few 
minutes he shook off the effects of the drug, and started 
up. It was daylight. 


26 


A CARDINAL SLY. 


“ The time — the time ? ” he asked, impatiently. His wife 
told him. 

“And you have let me sleep ! ” he said, birterly, dressing 
himself as he spoke. “ Is the horse there ? he continued, 
with the look on his face at which Mrs. Bourchier always 
trembled. 

The horse was waiting, in charge of a groom who was 
longing to be set free and get to his breakfast. Mr. Bour- 
chier completed his hasty toilet, and without bite or sup 
sprang into the saddle and went off at full speed. 

The wind had chopped and changed during the night, 
and snow at one time had fallen. It was now lying about 
an inch thick on everything. Mr. Bourchier was glad to 
see it — it would hide all traces of last night’s struggle. He 
needed no assistance to find the exact spot. He remem- 
bered noticing that close by it was a young fir tree, which 
had died prematurely, and now stood up leafless among its 
green and living brethren. In tremendous moments a trivial 
outside thing often intrudes itself, and Mr. Bourchier felt he 
should never see a withered tree again, without thinking 
of the events of last night. 

Although not so early as he wished to be, he was, he 
hoped, in time, and would be able to recover his lost 
pocket-book. There were no footprints on the snow on 
the Steepsides road, for, as the hill was wooded on both 
sides, no duties called the farm laborer that way. A fresh 
cart-track was the only thing that broke the integrity.of 
the white surface. Mr. Bourchier sent his horse along as 
fast as he could with safety. He soon reached the spot he 
remembered so well. The cart-track came up to it, and 
he noticed it continued as far beyond as eye could see ; 
but the snow for many yards around the terrible centre 
was trodden down in every direction. As Philip Bourchier 
looked at it, in some ghastly jocose way the childish re- 
membrance of Crusoe and the footprint on the sand flitted 
through his brain. 

Yet he dismounted and looked about him, not the less 
carefully because he felt it was hopeless. He looked high 
and low, but saw nothing of his pocket-book. He could 
not even find something he had carefully deposited a little 
way off ; so, with his thin lips tightly shut, he mounted and 
rode back to Redhills, to face as best he could inquiries, 
congratulations, and condolences. For a man, and, more- 
over, a Member of Parliament, who has shot a ruffian on 
the preceding night must expect plenty of such attentions. 


A CARDIN-AL SfJV. 


27 


Early as Mr. Bourchier had been that morning, there 
had been an earlier bird. Jim Stokes had retired to rest 
with the same resolve as to visiting a certain spot on the 
Brackley Road by daybreak. But chloral in the gentle- 
man’s case and gin in the poacher’s had acted similarly — 
Mr. Stokes had not been quite as early as he intended. 
He, having no wife to wake him, had but himself to 
blame ; and that men of his sort seldom do — they damn 
their luck instead. His bashfulness had made him shun 
the main road ; but certain footways which cross Steep- 
sides had brought him to his destination. He was luckier 
than Mr. Bourchier, for he found what he went after ; and 
walked by the way he came back to his hovel, to examine 
at his leisure a hand-bag he had picked up. It was the 
print of his feet which had made Mr. Bourchier think of 
Crusoe. 

There was an even earlier bird than these two. Farmer 
Davis, of Watercress Farm, the Redton side of Steep- 
sides, a tenant of Mr. Bourchier’s, had business which 
took him to Blacktown, although the day was not market- 
day. He, never having heard of chloral, and being mod- 
erate as to gin, was up at the time he intended to be ; and 
his cart-wheels were the first invaders of the pure white 
snow. Had you told Farmer Davis he was an unsuspect- 
ing admirer of nature, he would have assured you such a 
thing “ weren’t in his line.” Nor would he have been the 
wiser if you had told him that an innate love of the beautiful 
made him glance approvingly at the snow-covered fir-trees, 
as he drove his old horse down the hill, when that bright 
wintry morning broke. “ Pretty thing snow be,” said 
Farmer Davis. “ Trees all look as pretty as a scene of 
the staage — for once or twice he had been to Blacktown 
Theatre, and had been greatly impressed by the scene-paint- 
er’s skill. So he looked at the graceful white-decorated 
firs again and again, and, moreover, happened to look at 
one when he had nearly reached the bottom of the steep 
hill. Then he pulled up his horse. 

I’ve a zeed zum rum things in my time, but I never 
zeed pocket-books a-growing on vur-trees,” said Farmer 
Davis. 

For, on the lowest branch of the young tree . he was 
looking at, hung a black pocket-book, as neatly as if placed 
there intentionally, not by chance. 

Muttering sundry expressions of surprise, he drew as 
close to the bank as he could, and standing up in the cart, 


21 


S A CARDINAL SIN 

flicked with his whip until the strange fruit of the fir-tree 
fell down. He picked it up, but did not stop to exam- 
ine it then. Time was slipping by, and a Westshire farm- 
er who has to catch a train likes to be on the platform at 
least a quarter of an hour before the train is due — even at 
Sleeford Junction. 

When Farmer Davis was safely ensconced in the train he 
began to investigate his windfall. It was a large double 
pocket-book, or, rather, a letter-case. There were a good 
many papers in it, some of which appeared faded with age. 
The farmer was not a quick reader, so he postponed de- 
ciphering them. But among them was a paper the pur- 
port of which he knew from experience — it was a five- 
pound Bank of England note. The presence of this de- 
cided the fate of the pocket-book. Had its contents been 
valueless to all except the owner. Farmer Davis would have 
kept it until called for ; but as there was money in it, back 
it must go to its owner, at once ; and the owner’s name was 
printed in gilt letters inside it — James Boucher, High 
Street, Newham. 

He transacted his business in Blacktown, and before he 
returned home went, according to custom, to smoke a pipe 
and drink a glass of deep-brown brandy-and-water at the 
Railway Inn. He was one of those men who, although 
they would be indignant if it was asserted that writing was 
a matter of difficulty to them, yet prefer that someone 
else should write their letters. So he asked the “ bar- 
maid,” a respectable, motherly woman of about fifty, to do 
the pocket-book up in paper and direct it to the address 
stamped inside it. 

“ What’ll the stamps come to ? ” he asked, as she was 
directing the wrapper. She wmighed it, and found that 
threepence would defray the cost. 

Farmer Davis was a just man and an honest man, but 
veiy close. “ Thruppence is thruppence,” he said. “Just 
write a line, and put inside, un zay, ‘Zur, — I’ve a vound 
your pocket-book. The stamps is thruppence, which 
please zend to A. Davis, Watercress Vann, Redton.” 

So the pocket-book was packed up, directed, and sent to 
its supposed owner, with Farmer Davis’ bill for expenses 
inside it. 

James Boucher had been dead some months, but the 
postal clerks in Newham knew all about him, so, instead 
of the packet being opened and redirected to the sender, 
with “ Dead — no address,” written across it, some one took 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


29 


the trouble to go outside red-tapeism and inquire the ad- 
dress of his representative. This, with some difficulty, was 
ascertained ; and in about three weeks’ time the postman 
duly deposited the packet at No. 72 Gray Street, London, 
directed to John Boucher, the only son of the deceased. 

Farmer Davis little thought that his respected landlord 
would have willingly given him the fee simple of Water 
cress Farm in exchange for those papers in that black 
pocketbook. 


CHAPTER IV. 

FELLOW LODGERS. 

Gray Street is not a fashionable street of London. 
Even the house-agent who has an eligible house, in that 
particular part, to let, does not venture to call it more 
than a “genteel ” street. It is one of those many streets, 
so much alike, within a short distance of Regent Canal. 
The houses in it are respectable two-story buildings with 
three steps up to the front door, and a small railed area, 
which prevents passers-by from absolutely peeping into the 
ground floor window. If you knock at the front door of a 
house in Gray Street the chances are that, before answer- 
ing your summons, a servant reconnoitres you from the 
depths of the area to ascertain whether your station in life 
calls upon her to open the door to you, or if your errand 
can be performed in the open air. In fact, seven out of 
every ten houses in Gray Street are lodging-houses, and, 
as tlie neighborhood is very accessible, and not unpleasant, 
much frequented by young gentlemen — bachelors gen- 
erally — whose vocations call them to banks, merchants’ 
offices, and other mills, where they arc commencing the 
grind of life. 

The universal plan adopted by the Gray Street and other 
similar houses is this : The front ground-lloor room is fur- 
nished sombrely with mahogany and hair — old and sub- 
stantial. This room, which is called a dining-room, opens 
by folding doors into a bedroom at the back. The first 
floor is exactly the same in size, shape, and accommoda- 
tion. The front room of this is called the drawing-room, 
and is usually furnished with bright-green, red, or blue- 
covered chairs and couches, with a cheerful carpet and 
curtains to match. Upstairs are other bedrooms, which 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


30 

are occupied by the landlady and her family — the landlady 
being always a widow — and, it may be, by one or two 
lodgers who share the same sitting-room. 

Had the drawing-room of No. 72 been left to its own 
devices, it would have been no better than its neighbors. 
For all these drawing-rooms are alike. The furniture may 
be red, green, or other prismatic colors, but the effect is 
the same. The only difference there can be is whether you 
find the furniture in the lusty bloom of its youth or in the 
sadder hue of old age. 

But in No. 72 someone with an idea of better things 
had covered the gaudy chairs witli an inoffensive cretonne 
— had banished the vicious cut and colored glass lustres 
and cheap china vases in favor of a few unpretending but 
harmless knickknacks ; and as you entered the room you 
could not help noticing that a large portion of it was oc- 
cupied by a grand piano. If curiosity at seeing sucli an 
instrument there led you to open it, the name of one of the 
best makers in the world would stare you in the face. 

This morning there is but one occupant of the room — a 
girl of about nineteen. She is seated at the piano, and 
trying the accompaniment of a most difficult song — now 
and again singing a few notes ; but both singing and play- 
ing listlessly, as though her thoughts were elsewhere. 
Presently her hands fell on her lap, and she sat doing 
nothing. A knock came at the door. “ Come in,” said 
the girl, rising from the music-stool. 

Now we can see her. She is tall, and it needs no 
second glance to learn that she is beautiful. Her features 
are straight and regular ; her eyes dark, and the eyebrows 
over are exquisite. Her thick, soft, brown hair grows low 
upon a forehead broad enough to show she is no fool. Her 
complexion is pale, but perfectly consistent with health — 
it is only some powerful emotion which changes the color 
of her cheek. Her head is well and proudly set on a fair 
white neck, the outline of which sweeps away to a pair of 
shapely shoulders and a magnificent chest. With such a 
splendid frame, tiny hands and feet would be deformities ; 
but no fault can be found with the shape of her hands and 
feet. A queenly girl, stately and beautiful. 

It was the servant of the house who knocked. Guiltily 
conscious of an unsavory apron and dirty hands, her head 
only obeyed the girl’s command to enter. 

“ Please, miss,” she said, “ Mr. Manders’ compliments, 
miss, and would you like to see him before he goes out ? ” 


A CARDIN-AL SIJV. 


3 * 

“Yes ; ask him to come up.” And the tall girl walked 
over to the fire, and leaning one rounded arm on the man^ 
tel-piece, awaited her visitor. 

She was clothed in some soft, dark stuff, closely fitting, 
and showing her splendid figure to great advantage. Who 
can wonder that, on his entering, the visitor’s eyes as they 
fell upon her showed unmistakable signs of admiration ? 

He was a tall young man, handsome enough — handsome, 
mind ; not good-looking, which is another thing. He was 
well, even carefully dressed ; but, from certain minor 
things, a practised eye would have seen he was not quite 
the gentleman he wished to represent himself to be. A 
rope is only as strong as its weakest part, and in the would- 
be gentleman’s attire there is usually some frayed strand 
which makes those who know distrust the whole. 

He entered the room with the air of an old friend, and 
brought with him an unmistakable smell of tobacco. Tak- 
ing tlie girl’s hand in his, he held it until she gently, but 
firmly, withdrew it. 

“Any news ?” he said. 

“None,” she replied. “No letter, and another day gone. 
Nearly three weeks since he left — and he promised to be 
back in two days at the outside. What shall I do ? ” 

“ Better wait and hope. He’s all right. If any man 
knows how to take care of himself it’s John Boucher.” 

“ But three weeks — to leave me alone without a word ! 
He must be dead.” 

“Not a bit of it !” said Manders, with a clumsy sort of 
levity. “ Perhaps he wanted a bit of a change. Maybe he’s 
run over to the States again.” 

The girl glanced at him scornfully. “You, who have 
known him all your lifetime, to suppose that!” She 
turned away as she spoke and looked at the fire. 

“Something must be done,” she said, presently; “I 
must advertise or go to the police. How can I continue 
in this anxiety ? How can I go on living here alone, with- 
out a friend except you ?” 

“ I should wait another week or so,” he said, more gravely. 
“You see, Frances, your father may have his own reasons 
for staying away ; I shouldn’t advertise or set the police 
on his track.” 

Perhaps Mr. Manders was not averse to acting as sole 
protector to this beautiful girl. 

She said no more, but with bent brows gazed down into 
the fire. Her companion wMked across to the piano, and 


32 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


Struck a few chords with a firm, powerful touch. Then he 
opened his chest, and notes of “ Sound an alarm ” rang 
through the little room. 

Both Frances Boucher and George Manders had that 
gift — that gift which may fall on rich or poor, gentle or 
simple —music. For the muse, in bestowing her favors, 
heeds not the condition of men. They both had voices, 
and music was the chief bond between them. Both were 
ambitious of gaining both fortune and fame as public 
singers ; indeed, it was for this that George Manders had 
accompanied John Boucher and his daughter from Amer- 
ica, and, as the girl said, having known them all his life, 
had taken up his abode on the ground floor of the house 
at which they lodged. 

As he sang she listened apparently with great interest ; 
then a sad look crossed her face. The singer threw the 
last notes on the air, then looked up at her inquiringly. 

“ Oh, George ! ” she said, in answer to his look, and 
.-sneaking more kindly than she had yet spoken, “ don’t be 
angry with me, but there is something wanting — some- 
thing that must be there to make a great artist.” 

Angry or not, he closed the piano with a bang, then rose 
and came to her. 

“ The old fault, I suppose — feeling, expression, soul as 
you call it, wanting ? ” 

Her silence assented. He drew nearer, and his eyes 
looked very bright. 

“ Frances, you know what would change everything for 
me — what would make a singer of me. Give me your love. 
Think again — Give me what I ask.” 

He needed no answer in words. The face he looked at 
so ardently told him his appeal was hopeless. There was 
no tremor in her voice as she said, “ 1 cannot ; why pain 
me and yourself by asking what is impossible ! ” 

He said no more, but turned away with a black, vicious 
look on his handsome face. His hand was on the door 
•when it opened, and the servant announced ‘‘The music- 
master.” She meant no rudeness, but Herr Kaulitz was a 
name she could never pronounce to her satisfaction. 

Herr Kaulitz, a thorough Teuton, with long, light hair, 
and the inevitable spectacles, entered. Manders gave him 
a half nod and a scowl, and left the room. 

“ Goot-morning, mine dear Miss Bouzher,” said the 
master, “ what have been you to the young man doing ? 
His face looked — acli/it looked like tunder,” 


A CARDII^AL SIM 


33 


Miss Boucher greeted him, but did not answer his in- 
quiry. “ He thinks he shall zing, that young man ; but 
he never shall zing. Ah, yes, you vill say he has voice. 
What is voice ? Bah, nothing ! But you, you vill zing. 
You shall the vorrrld zom day by storrrm take. Now to 
work.” 

He seated himself at the piano, and for the next half- 
hour the girl’s magnificent soprano voice filled the room ; 
till the next door lodger — a refined young man at a bank, 
who was at home with a bad cold — glued his ear against 
the wall, and longed more and more to become acquainted 
with his gifted neighbor. Yes, Frances Boucher could 
sing. 

But George Manders never would have made a singer. 
Besides the utter absence of expression in his style, Fran- 
ces was sorry to have to think that even his voice was de- 
teriorating since he had been in Engfiind. His mode of 
life may have had something to do with it ; for a man who 
would rank as a great singer must live soberly and dis- 
creetly as a saint or an anchorite. 

His manner of life was very far from that. We need 
not follow him when, in a whirlwind of passion, he left 
Miss Boucher’s room, or ask how he spent the day and 
night. At any rate, it was half-past seven in the morning 
when he opened the door of No. 72 and re-entered. 

He may have been drinking during his absence, but he 
was sober enough by this time, although a general look of 
dissipation pervaded him. The servant of the house was, 
no doubt, up and about ; but she had not yet visited the 
hall or collected the morning’s letters which were lying in 
the little wire cage fixed to the door. Manders took them 
01 \t, found one for himself, also a bulky packet for John 
Boucher. This, not knowing exactly why, he carried into 
his own room with him, and lying it on his bedroom 
mantelpiece, threw himself into bed and slept for some 
hours. 

He was young, with a good constitution ; so he awoke 
not much the worse for the night’s dissipation, and even ate 
a good breakfast. He intended afterward to see Frances 
and give her the letter addressed to her absent father ; but 
his curiosity was aroused by the size and the heaviness of 
the packet, which he examined and found bore the New- 
ham postmark. 

Wonder what the deuce has become of Boucher ? ” he 
i/aid. Then he thought of Frances, and her determined 


34 


A CARDINAL SiN. 


rejection of his handsome self ; and he ground his teeth. 
Then he looked at the packet again, and grew more and 
more curious. 

“I had better open it,'’ he said, “it may be business — • 
I am sure Boucher would wish me to do so in his ab-« 
sence.” 

So he opened it — but probably not feeling quite justified 
in so doing, opened it by running a lead pencil under the 
gummed flap. By a little delicate manipulation he suc- 
ceeded in detaching it without breakage, so that, if neces- 
sary, it might be sealed up again. 

There was another envelope inside, and having once be- 
gun he had no hesitation in attacking this by the same 
successful means. There he was rewarded by the sight 
of the pocketbook before described. 

He rang the bell, had the breakfast things cleared away, 
then sat down to investigate. The book was full of papers, 
which he pulled out one by one, the first being the note 
from Farmer Davis. This puzzled him greatly. How could 
John Boucher or James Boucher’s pocketbook have been 
found at a place called Redton — a place he had never 
heard of? Then he unfolded other papers, and began to 
puzzle out what they meant. 

A half sheet of foolscap, headed “ Extract from Will of 
Robert Bourchier,” dated 1807. “Mem. It is under this 
will we claim.” Then followed the words of the testator 
as to the disposition of Redhills, which I have before 
quoted. Next a copy of the will of James Bourchier, of 
Newham, which, in a few lines, left all his property, in- 
cluding the estate of Redhills, of which he was the right- 
ful owner, to his son, John Bourchier, commonly called 
Boucher. Then a number of narrow strips of paper, cer- 
tificates — of the marriage of James Bourchier and Mary 
Williams in 1831 ; of the birth of John Bourchier in 1833 *, 
of the marriage of John Bourchier and Frances Vincent in 
1854 ; of the birth of a Digby Bourchier in 1855 ; of the 
birth of a Frances Bourchier in 1856 ; and of the death of 
the above-named Digby, infant son of John Bourchier and 
Frances, his wife, in i%6. The last four were of a differ- 
ent kind to the others, being certificates issued by the 
Bureau of Vital Statistics, New York. There was yet one 
more certificate — that of the marriage of Digby Bourchier ami 
Jane Dyer in 1808. Well might John Boucher, as, with 
these papers in his possession, he entered the railway car- 
riage that fatal night, have told Mr. Philip Tremaine 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


f! 


35 


Bourchier that the matter was too simple to need a law- 
yer’s advice upon. 

For, in spite of some eccentricities, law and common 
sense are synonymous terms. Unless he was a fool, no 
one with those papers before him could have failed to un- 
derstand their meaning — and George Manders was a long 
way from being a fool. But had his intelligence been too 
dense to comprehend the purport of the papers, the last 
one he drew out would have made it clear. This was a 
letter, dated August, in the present year, and signed James 
Bourchier. 

“ My Dear Son, 

“I am writing this on what I fear is my death- 
bed. Joy, they say, kills as well as grief. You will guess 
what I mean — what I have found at last. I am too weak to 
tell you in what miraculous way my steps were turned in 
the right direction. I can only say that when you return 
and find me dead my banker here will deliver to you a sealed 
packet, which now contains everything — the last paper I 
have placed there being the marriage certificate of my 
father and mother. — Come home at once. I am the un- 
doubted owner of the estate. Oh, that your baby boy 
had lived I But you are young, my boy, and can marry 
again.” 

There was a postscript in very feeble writing : — 


“In case of accidents — they were married February 15, 
1808, at W Church, Cornwall.” 

The young man read the letter over and over again. 
He put the papers in chronological order, and, as far as 
was possible, made himself master of the situation. It 
was evident that John Boucher was entitled to some prop- 
erty, but whether much or little he had nothing to show 
him. It was strange that Boucher had never mentioned 
the matter to him ; but, as we know, Boucher never be- 
lieved in the claim. He sympathized with his father’s de- 
sire to prov’-e his legitimacy, but could not look with the 
same eyes of faith. Does Frances know? was Manders’ 
next thought. If so, she had been as silent as her father 
on the subject. Then, where was Boucher ? The idea 
crossed his mind that his absence might in some way be 
connected with this claim. Could he have met with foul 


3 ^ 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


play? If dead, would whatever he was entitled to pass to 
his daughter ? — and as George Manders thought of hex' 
beautiful face, so cold and calm to him, he cursed his in- 
ability to win her love — for, bad as the man was, he ad- 
mired her and after his own fashion loved her. 

It was a long time before he could make up his mind 
how to act. At last he took a sheet of paper, jotted down 
names and dates, then replaced the pocket-book in its 
covers, and resealing it, locked it away. He rang the bell. 

“Ask Miss Boucher if she would like to see me,” he 
said to the servant. 

“ Law, sir, miss went out an hour ago — didn’t you heai 
her ?” No, he had been too much immersed to hear any- 
thing. 

“ Can you get me a time-table ? ” he asked the servant, 
who did his bidding with alacrity : for he was a handsome 
young man, and not “ stand-offish ” with female servants. 

“ I am going out of town to-night ; I may not be back 
for a few days. If Miss Boucher has not returned, I will 
leave a note for her.” 

He caught the three o’clock express to the west. Black- 
town was his destination — the postmark on the inner en- 
velope guided him. When Frances returned she found 
his note. In it he told her he was called away for two or 
three days ; regretted being compelled to leave her when 
she was so anxious as to her father’s fate, and finished by 
begging her, in a few passionate but not badly-chosen 
words, to reconsider the answer she had given him yester- 
day. Had he seen with what little emotion she read his 
appeal, George Manders would have given up all hope. 
She was sorry for him, but knew his character and its 
weaknesses so well that love between the two was an im- 
possibility. 

Manders slept at Blacktown that night. He readily as- 
certained where Redton was, and the next morning found 
him waiting, as John Boucher had waited, at Sleeford 
Junction. 

The same porter was on duty, replying in the stereo- 
typed way to querulous passengers, when Manders, who 
thought he might now commence closer and less general 
inquiries, accosted him. 

“Where’s Redhills about here ?” he asked. 

The man started as if shot. 

“ I say,” he answered, with solemnity, “ don’t you come 
asking me those fatal questions •. I won’t answer ’em.” 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


37 


^‘What the do you mean?” said Manders, whose 

vocabulary was American and forcible. 

“ I mean a chap came and asked me just that question 
three weeks ago, and he’s dead and buried now.” 

It was now Manders’ turn to start. Who was the man 
who might have been asking the way to Redhills three 
weeks ago? 

“ What kind of chap ? ” he asked. 

The porter removed his cap and rubbed up his hair. 

‘‘That’s what floors me,” he said. “ I should have said 
a hearty, open sort of a chap. But it seems he wasn’t. He 
sat heare, just on this truck like, he laughed and talked to 
me and cut off a piece of baccy and gave me. Heare’s 
the very piece,” continued the porter, producing the relic 
with an air of pride. 

Manders took it in his hand. It was the sort which he 
knew John Boucher always smoked. 

“ Go on,” he cried, with impatience. 

“ Seems he weren’t such a nice sort after all. Mr. 
Bourchier, M.P., he gave him a lift from Brack ley to Red- 
ton — then this chap tried to rob and murder Mr. Bour- 
chier, M.P., so he whips out his pistol and shoots him 
through the heart — shoots him dead.” • 

Manders could scarcely control his agitation. “ Shot 
who dead — Mr. Bourchier ?” he asked. 

“No, Mr. Bourchier shot that poor chap who sat on this 
truck, dead.” Manders’ hands were trembling — all sorts 
of strange thoughts were surging through his brain. “ Who 
was he ?” he gasped, in so altered a voice that the porter 
stared at him. 

“Not a soul knows — there were nothing to tell who he 
were. Not a scrap. There’s been an inquest, and there’s 
been the assizes — they’re just over. Mr. Bourchier, M.P., 
he were tried for manslaughter and acquitted honorable.” 

Manders scarcely heard him — the wildest thoughts, fan- 
cies, and embryo plans were darting about in his subtle 
brain. 

“Why, where have you been?” continued the porter. 
“Every paper full of it — in the London papers, too, they 
tell me. ‘Attack on a M.P.’ You must have seen it.” 

“ I never read the papers,” said Manders, shortly — then 
the up or the down train came in, and, shortly afterward, 
he entered a carriage on the branch line — entered it like a 
man in a dream. 

He got out at Brackley, By this time he was calm and 


38 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


collected — outwardly so, at least. He entered the Brack- 
ley Arms, and made himself very agreeable to the landlady 
and her daughter, who managed that excellent establish- 
ment. A few clever hints dropped gave a kind of reason 
for the advent of such a distinguished-looking stranger, 
and, as he smoked his cigar and sipped brandy-and-water, 
he heard again all that the porter had told him, and with 
considerable additions. He learned the magnitude of the 
Redhills estate, and the important part its owner played 
in the county. He even learned about the three lawsuits 
brought about by'James Boucher, of Newham, and mat- 
ters grew very, very clear to Mr. Manders. He agreed 
with the landlady that it was a kindly act of Mr. Bourchier 
to give instructions that the unidentified ruffian who had 
sought his life should be buried in a decent grave in Red- 
ton Churchyard, at his, Mr. Bourchier’s, expense. 

“ But you see, sir,” said the landlady, “ it must be an 
awful thing to have a fellow-creature’s blood on one’s hands 
— even if it were done in self-defence.” 

“It must indeed,” said Manders, gravely. “What sort 
of a man is Mr. Bourchier ? ” 

“ A terrible stern man in some things, sir. People 
about here wonder at his being so kind as to have the 
poor man buried. ’Taint like his way.” 

Manders did not wonder so much. He had learned 
pretty well all he needed, so he ordered a horse and vehicle 
to convey him to Redton. 

The driver was an intelligent lad, who could point out 
every object of interest on the road. He showed Manders 
where William the groom got out to walk up the short- 
cut — he stopped at the very spot where the struggle took 
place ; then, as they neared the village of Redton, he 
pointed out what a guide-book would call Redhills, the 
beautiful seat of Philip Tremaine Bourchier, M.P., and as 
Manders saw from the distance its size and importance, 
his heart throbbed within him. “ Self-defence,” he mut- 
tered ; “ of course it was self-defence. If you may shoot a 
man for picking your pocket, why not when he means to 
rob you of a place like this ?” 

You see George Manders’ ideas of morality and the 
sanctity of human life were not of the highest class. 

He asked the boy cautiously about Farmer Davis, to 
whom the sum of threepence was so clearly due, but after 
mature consideration decided not to call and discharge 
that liability, He had no wish to see more people than 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


was necessary. It was this reason that made him change 
his mind as to stopping at Redton, and instruct the driver, 
if his horse could do it, to go straight on to Longmere. 
Driver, if not horse, was willing enough, and from Long- 
mere Mr. Manders took the next train to Blacktown. 
There he dined, and after dinner paid a visit to a news- 
paper office, and, with some trouble, managed to obtain 
the back numbers of the paper which contained a report 
of the attack on Mr. Bourchier, the inquest on his assail- 
ant, and of the county assizes where he had just been ac- 
quitted of manslaughter after a very brief, matter-of-form 
trial. He took the mail to town, and on the journey pe- 
rused all these interesting accounts, and with the aid of 
all those documents lying in his desk at Gray Street saw 
things in a light very different from that of coroner, judge, 
or jury. 

Late as it was when he reached No. 72, he had no 
thought of resting himself. He brought out the pocket- 
book once more, spread the papers on the table before 
him, read and re-read, all the while talking to himself. 
Had you known Mr. Manders personally, you would under- 
stand the disturbed state of his mind when I tell you that 
in his excitement he forgot even tobacco and strong 
drink. 

Strange to say, the certificate which interested him most 
was the American one which certified the birth of John 
Boucher’s son Digby, the child whose early death was re- 
corded by the following certificate. He kept on repeating 
to himself, Digby Bourchier, born 1855,” and he remem- 
bered well that it was a resemblance they fancied their 
infant son would have borne to him had he lived that first 
made John Boucher and his wife take such a kindly inter- 
est in a boy of ten years old — ^a bright, clever, musical boy 
named George Manders. So ever and again he returned 
to this one certificate — ever and again repeating, “ Digby 
Bourchier, born 1855.” 

But his conversation with himself was at times varied 
by other sentences. “ Does Frances know ? ” “ Will it all 

come to her?” “Will she marry me?” These were the 
other phrases which broke the monotony of the repeti- 
tion. 

At last he rose, collected the papers, which, being now 
so precious, he placed under his pillow. “ I can decide 
nothing,” was his last remark to himself, as, wearied, he 
sunk into bed. “Nothing until I see her to-morrow. 


40 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


Whether I live as an honest man or what people call a 
villain depends upon the answer she gives me.” 

A cynical, bad smile was playing on his lips, even as 
thoughts merged into dreams, and George Manders slept. 


CHAPTER V. 

UNDERPLAY AND MYSTERY. 

The notes of the grand piano, second in power and 
sweetness only to the voice they accompanied, seemed to 
pervade the house when George Manders awoke. His 
head was clear and fit for work, and he ate his breakfast 
with a healthy appetite. He bade the servant leave the 
door open, that he might hear Frances Boucher’s singing 
to better advantage. He had lain in bed very late — so late 
that Herr Kaulitz’s morning visit had been paid, and he 
knew that Frances was alone. He sat listening to what of 
the music forced its way down through the closed door 
overhead, listening rather sadly, and wondering when he 
should hear that voice again. 

Anyway,” he said, “her fortune is secure. In three 
years she will sing better than anyone in England.” Man- 
ders had a way, which is common to most young men, of 
excusing or palliating to themselves any wrong action they 
intend doing. 

As his last night’s meditations had quite decided the line 
of action he meant to pursue — barring the highly improb- 
able contingency that Frances had changed her resolute 
mind in the course of the last few hours — he commenced 
his preparations. The first of these was very prosaic, for 
it consisted of sending for Mrs. Stacey, his landlady, and 
discharging her demands upon him up to the end of the 
current week. The landlady, who was at that moment 
threatened with a summons for unpaid taxes, was grateful, 
and wished all her lodgers were as prompt as Mr. Manders. 
Then he returned to his bedroom, and packed the most 
portable and valuable of his possessions into two portman- 
teaus. All the time he was so engaged he heard the rich 
melodies proceeding from the floor above. Having fin- 
ished his packing, he dressed himself with great care, and 
sent the servant to announce an impending visit to the 
drawing-room. 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


41 


The girl Was in much the same attitude as that in which 
he found her last time — but now she advanced to meet him. 

“ Back so soon,” she said, eagerly ; “ have you heard 
anything, George ? That was what took you away, was it 
not ? ” 

Manders was not a bad actor ; as I have said, his imita- 
tion of a gentleman, although not perfect, was good. He 
opened his eyes. 

“No, I went on my own business. I hoped to get a 
good professional engagement, but I failed, of course. 
Have you no news ? ” 

“ None — I shall go mad if this lasts. I must do some- 
thing.” 

“It is very strange,” he said, gravely. “ I am more 
frightened than I like to own. I really fear that death 
can only account for his silence.” 

She covered her eyes and shuddered. In his next sen- 
tence he threw all the sympathy he could muster. 

“ Frances, you will not take the question amiss from me 
' — have you any money to go on with ? ” 

“ Plenty,” she answered, “ and there is plenty more in 
his desk.” 

She thought this question was prompted by a kindly 
feeling ; the next seemed impertinent. 

“ What do you call plenty ?” he asked. 

“ Oh, hundreds Of pounds,” she answered, shortly. 

He paused a moment, then ventured to take her hand. 

“ If we hear nothing soon, something must be done,” he 
said. “ I believe your father is dead. Tell me if you think 
he has made his will.” 

She looked at him, surprised ; his eyes were full of feel- 
ing. 

“ Why do you ask such questions ? Tell me all you 
know — is he dead ? ” 

“ I told you I know no more than you. But some steps 
must be taken soon. Please answer my question.” 

Frances saw he was in earnest. “ My father told me 
once, laughing, that if he died I should find a paper he 
had just signed in his desk, leaving me everything.” 

George Manders learned two things he was anxious to 
learn — that Frances had money to go on with — plenty of 
money — and that John Boucher had made a will. His 
future would be decided in the next five minutes. If 
Frances Boucher would only consent to be his wife — what 
a future it would be ! 


42 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


There was true passion in his face when he spoke again. 

Let us sing one duet together,” he begged. It was a 
strange request at that moment, but seeing he was in 
earnest she consented. He led her to the piano. 

In that duet the young man sang as he had never sung 
before — as he never sang afterward. Frances Boucher 
even wondered, as his voice blended with hers, whether she 
had not under-estimated his powers. She little knew 
under what excitement he brought forth those notes. As 
the last vibration ceased she turned to praise him with true 
friendly praise. 

Then he seized her hand — then he asked once more 
for her love, pleading for it with a passion she had never 
supposed him capable of feeling. It was his last throw, 
and let us think, in his favor, that as he entreated her, for 
a moment he forgot all save love and desire to win her. 
For Frances was a prize well worth any man’s winning. 
At that moment George Manders would have thrown his 
schemes to the wind and have taken her penniless, if needs 
be, without a moment’s hesitation. 

It W£^s not to be — as gently as she could she told him 
there never was, never could be, any hope for him. 
Friends let them be, and friends they would be, if once 
and forever he would leave this subject. Then Manders 
recovered his composure and knew that, as far as Frances 
was concerned, his fate was settled. 

“ So be it,” he said, “but wdiatever happens to you or 
to me in the future, remember I have begged you to be 
my wife to-day.” 

There was a threat conveyed — more by accent than by 
word — which she could not understand. 

All trace of passion had vanished from his voice as he 
spoke again. 

“ I will say good-by, for a while. I am going out of 
town again to-morrow.” 

There was such a significant inflection in his voice that 
Frances started. 

“Oh,” she cried, “you know something, in spite of 
your denial. I can see you do. You have some clew. 
Tell me, at once ! Why . do you keep me in ignorance ?” 
She stamped her foot and spoke like a queen. 

Weak in character as she knew the man to be, from sev- 
eral things which had come to her knowledge, Frances 
did not know that he had been weak from choice — that he 
had yielded to the temptations which beset young men 


A CARDmAL SIJV, 


43 


because he had no wish to resist them. She did not know 
that his craft and subtlety were a match for her strong 
will — that, if he hesitated and appeared troubled at her 
question, it was for his own ends. 

“Tell me — tell me all,” she said, imperiously. 

He wanted to make one more point sure. 

“ Do you think,” he asked, doubtfully, “ it could be 
possible that your father had any enemy in England ? 
Any one that his death would benefit — any one he had a 
claim on ? ” 

Frances could not understand the question. 

“ How could there be ? ” she said. “ He knows no one 
in England. He left when a boy of eighteen and never 
visited it again until now. But tell me all you have found 
out — all you suspect — without any more of these mys- 
teries ? ” 


Manders was certain as she spoke that Frances knew 
nothing of the claim to Redhills. 

“ I will tell you all I can,” he answered, slowly. “ Yes, 
I have a clew — in a few days I will tell you more. I may 
be wrong in my conjectures, but, my poor girl, I am afraid 
you must prepare for the worst.” 

In spite of commands, even entreaties, he would say no 
more — and shortly afterward he left her. She heard a cab 
draw up at the door, and, from the window, saw George 
Manders enter it with his luggage and drive away. For 
four or five days she waited, a prey to the greatest agitation 
— longing for, yet fearing, his return and the tidings he 
would bring her. So much upset was she that even Herr 
Kaulitz was not admitted. Music in her present state of 
uncertainty had lost its usual charm. 

At last a letter came in Manders’ hand-writing. She 
tore it open and read the contents. It was dated from 
Liverpool. 


“My Poor Frances, 

“ It is as I feared. Your father is dead. I have ascer- 
tained. that fact beyond the shadow of a doubt. You will 
of course ask me how and where he died. This I cannot 
and will not tell you. The whole thing is too terrible. 
You must be satisfied in knowing that he is dead. I do 
not expect you to understand my reasons for not telling 
you all, but when I say that to-day I return to the States — 
that I throw up my chance of a career in England — simply 
to avoid seeing you again, and explaining what you would 


44 


A CARDINAL SIN 


force me to explain, you will know that the reason is i 
weighty one, and, I hope, think I am acting in your besi 
interest. What will you do ? Let me advise you first ol 
all to put your affairs in a respectable lawyer’s hands — 
then with the money you have to go to Italy and study for 
three years. The certain success which awaits you will, I 
am sure, conquer grief. 

“ Good-by, we may meet no more. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“ George Manders. 

“ P. S. — Let me urge you not to inquire as to your 
father’s fate. It will only lead to distress.” 

Frances read this extraordinary letter with a bewildered 
brain. She had no reason to mistrust the writer — she had 
no clew to his schemes. The papers were with him, and 
she had never heard of Redhills. Not for a moment did 
she doubt but Manders had ascertained what had become 
of her father ; but she blamed him bitterly and angrily for 
daring to decide that it would be better for his daughter 
to remain in ignorance as to how he met his death, than to 
learn the particulars, however terrible they might be. 
Had she known where to look for him she would have 
started then and there for Liverpool, and insisted upon his 
giving her full particulars. But the statement that he 
sailed for America the day the letter was posted made the 
idea an absurd one. The poor girl grieved with a mighty 
grief for the loss of her father — she shuddered at the name- 
less death he had met with — too horrible for Manders to 
disclose. Could she only have learned the spot where 
strange hands had laid him, it would have been some sorry 
consolation — at least she could have thrown herself on the 
grave and w'ept until tears failed her. Now she knew not 
what to do or where to turn. Her utter loneliness in the 
world appalled her. Save Manders, who had deserted her 
in her need, she had no friend in England. It was but a 
few weeks since her father brought her to London, and 
the time had been too short to make new friends, while 
the few old ones were across the Atlantic. Relatives she 
knew of none. The grandfather she had never seen, and 
who had so recently died, was the only one she had ever 
heard her father mention. What was she to do ? 

Till the next day she did nothing but sorrow. She read 
and re-read that strange letter, and wondered more and 
more what could have made Manders write so mysteriously 


I 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


45 

— why he should prefer to leave England rather than to 
meet her. Then her brows contracted and her eyes grew 
stern, as Frances Boucher vowed that some day she would 
seek him, across the world if needful, and force the truth 
from the poor weak wretch. 

Perhaps it was this feeling of indignation which aided 
her to recover from her first grief, and at last resolve to 
act. The prosaic advice given her as to consulting a so- 
licitor was the best to follow ; but she must find a trust- 
worthy one. Mrs. Stacey, the landlady, was asked to rec- 
ommend one. The good widow’s experience of lawyers 
and their ways was not encouraging. 

“ Do I know a respectable solicitor, miss ? No, and very 
few people do, I fancy — I know a solicitor ; who put the 
law to work against a young man who owed me seven 
pounds, four shillings, and he charged me six pounds for 
getting the money. But, perhaps, you don’t mind that. 
If so his name is ” 

“ Never mind,” said Frances, with afaint smile. “ I don’t 
think that kind of man will do.” 

“ There’s my eldest son — a smart lad in an auctioneer’s 
office. If he could be of use ” 

“No, thank you,” answered the girl, feeling more and 
more lonely and helpless. 

After a few well-meant attempts at consolation, Mrs. 
Stacey left ; then Frances thought of her only other ac- 
quaintance in London, the gifted composer and some- 
times singing-master, Herr Kaulitz. She wrote and asked 
him to call. He obeyed her summons with alacrity. 

“ Mine goot Miss Bouzher, I rejoice myself to again 
gome to you.” Then seeing the grief on her face, “ Lieb 
Herr Gott ! ” he cried : “ you veep. Ach ! let the tears be 
in the voice — as zomebody zays — but in those beautiful 
eyes not.” 

He was a kind-hearted Teuton, and old enough to treat 
her in a fatherly way. He sat beside her, took her hand, 
and in broken but well-meaning English begged for an ex- 
planation of her trouble. 

She told him of her father’s disappearance — told him she 
had received intelligence of his death — then asked him to 
recommend a solicitor, if he knew one worthy of confidence. 

“ Oh, yes, I know a zolizitor — a very good zolizitor. 
He laughed at me, that man, when I was a fool and would 
go to the law. But he would not me allow to go to law, 
and he was right. Oh, yes. he is a goot man.” 


46 


A CAKVJJVAI. 


This was more promising. At Frances’ request, He: 
Kaulitz, glad of an opportunity of paying a debt of grat 
tude, sent his solicitor to her. He was a middle-agec 
man, with a kind, clever face. Frances trusted him at 
first sight, tol^ him how she was situated, and at last 
showed him Manders’ curious letter. Mr. Trenfield saw 
he had a remarkable case to deal with. He, being a man 
of the world, did not for a moment believe in Manders’ 
alleged reason for quitting England so hastily. He grew 
interested in the case — perhaps the personal appearance 
of his new client made him unusually interested — and set 
to work at once to solve the mystery. Yet a lawyer is 
bound to be cautious ; and even though a new client be a 
charming, stately young woman, he is bound to ascertain 
her solvency before he acts on her behalf. 

“ You have money to spare for these inquiries ? ” he 
asked, kindly, not doubtfully. 

Frances reassured him on this point. 

“ Very well. Now, what kind of a man is your corre- 
spondent^ ” 

" She told him all she knew about him, and on what close 
terms of friendship he had been with them since he was a 
boy. Mr. Trenfield was puzzled, and unable to construct 
any theory which accounted for the man’s conduct. 

“Did he sail, I wonder?” he said. “That must be as- 
certained. I shall send to Liverpool to-night and find out 
what boats left on Wednesday, and if a man answering his 
description went in either. Now, as you feel sure your 
father is dead, we must examine his papers and look for a 
clue among them.” 

It seemed like sacrilege to Frances ; indeed, it was only 
Mr. Trenfield’s last words which induced her to consent. 
The hope which would linger — that Manders had been 
mistaken, or had spoken falsely — seemed finally chased as 
Mr. Trenfield pried open desk, drawers, and boxes, of 
which the daughter had no key. 

The lawyer found little to guide them, although any 
doubts as to his client’s solvency must have been set at 
rest by the discovery of a banker’s pass-book, showing a 
credit of several thousands of pounds to John Boucher. 
This money was partly the proceeds of his business in 
New York, which he had realized before obeying his 
lather’s summons to return to England. Doubtless it was 
waiting at the banker’s for a good opportunity of invest- 
ing it to arise, There was also an American bond of 


A CARDII^AL SIN. 


4y 

payable to bearer, and about a hundred pounds in 
Bank of England notes. Mr. Trenfield also found a will 
bequeathing, everything to Frances. There were also 
plenty of business papers, but all related to American 
affairs. There was one letter from a firm of solicitors in 
Newham, stating that according to his instructions all 
James Boucher’s effects had been disposed of, and the 
amount paid to the credit of John Boucher at the before- 
named bank in London. But there was absolutely noth- 
ing to throw any light on the missing man’s whereabouts. 

‘‘ He did not say a word as to where he was going ? ” 
asked Mr. Trenfield, stroking his clean-shaven chin. 
“ Not a word ? ” 

No ; he went away laughing — said he was going on 
business,” and Frances’ eyes were dim as she recalled the 
last time she saw him. 

“Nothing else — nothing about the kind of business, or 
how long he would be away ?” 

Frances was striving to remember his last words. She 
remembered his kissing her, then his getting into the cab 
while she stood at the open door — yes, she remembered 
his very last words-^ 

“ Good-by, my little girl, and be prepared for a great 
surprise when I return.” 

A great surprise — it might mean a new dress, a locket, 
a bracelet, anything — but Mr. Trenfield, a man not without 
imagination, fancied it might hold a deeper meaning. 

“ His only business, as far as we can see, must have been 
at Newham,” he said. “ I will send there and inquire. At 
present we can do no more.” HO jotted down dates and 
description, and prepared to depart. Now that something 
was to be done, Frances was more herself. 

“This money,” she asked, “may I use it?” 

“ If you ask me as a lawyer,” replied her adviser, “ I must 
say no ; but if you ask me as a friend, I should say put it 
aside. Even if your father is dead, it will be a long, long 
time before you will be empowered to claim his money, 
especially if we cannot find the only man who is able to 
prove his death. So, I should say, use the money first, then 
sell the bond, and live on the proceeds till thinp are settled. 
You must take no notice of this advice, as it is not law.” 

“ Will you take charge of it ? ” 

“No ; I am going to forget that I have seen it. Besides, 
I was a stranger to you a tew hours ago — why should you 
trust me ? ” 


455 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


“Whom have I to trust ? ” said Frances, sadly. “ I am 
utterly alone. Oh, Mr. Trenfield ! I may trust you en- 
tirely, may I not ? ” 

Mr. Trenfield was growing very much interested in his 
client. He took her hand. 

“ My dear girl,” he said, “you may trust me, not only as 
a lawyer, but, if you will allow it, as a friend.” 

She thanked him. His manner had been very kind, and 
it was a relief to feel she had some one to turn to. 

“You shall hear as soon as I have learned anything,” 
said Mr. Trenfield, as they parted. 

What he could learn was learned in a few days. George 
Manders had sailed for America, as he expressed his in- 
tention of doing — he was entered in the list of passengers 
under his true name. Thereupon a telegram was sent 
under the Atlantic to await him on his arrival, requesting 
him to send all particulars of J. B. to Mr. Trenfield, the 
latter gentleman thinking he would pay more attention if 
, asked to communicate direct with him. But Manders 
'took no notice of the request. Frances insisted, that no 
-money should be spared in endeavoring to trace him, so 
‘inquiries were instituted, and it was ascertained that he 
had sold a remnant of property which still belonged to 
'him — his mother, a widow, having died before he came to 
England — and then had disappeared, no one knew in what 
direction. 

The intelligence gleaned by the agent who went to New- 
ham was more to the point. It was found that John 
Boucher had been there — that he had taken a packet, sup- 
posed to contain valuables, from the bank — that with this 
.'packet in his possession he had left Newham. Detective 
skill even traced him, or said it traced him, back to Lon- 
don, and there was an end of it. It was clear that he must 
have been murdered for the sake of the articles of value 
about him. Murdered and made away with — that was the 
opinion of those who ought to know best. This theory ap- 
peared logical. A sealed packet supposed to be of great 
value, claimed in due course by the owner — and afterward 
the mysterious disappearance of the owner. It was quite 
tenable, and the detective employed peered into every hole 
and corner for a clew. That a ruffian shot by a member 
of Parliament a month ago should be the owner of the 
valuable property, whatever it might have been, never en- 
tered a person’s head. Had any one by chance fancied 
that the packet left by the ^ate James Boucher at his 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


49 


banker’s contained what it did, he might have gone on the 
right track. But it was some thirteen years since James 
Boucher had made a claim on Redhills, so the matter was 
fading from people’s memory. 

So certain it seemed that her father had been robbed 
and murdered that Frances acquiesced when Mr. Trenfield 
suggested that further inquiries were useless. Although 
she wondered how George Manders could have learned 
what had baffled the detectives, she was at times doubtful 
whether his reason for concealing the truth from her was 
not really from a mistaken kindness that wished to save 
her pain. 

In those days of grief and anxiety Mr. Trenfield kept 
his promise, and acted as a true friend to her. He en- 
listed his wife’s sympathies for his fair client, and an ac- 
quaintance sprung up which ended in Frances leaving 
Gray Street and sojourning at Mr. Trenfield’s charming 
suburban residence at Twickenham — until matters were 
settled. 

As soon as the girl half resigned herself to the fact that 
in the absence of Manders her father’s death must remain 
a mystery — as soon as she became convinced that although 
the details were wanting vulgar robbery and murder caused 
it, youth and ambition reasserted themselves. Herr Kau- 
litz, now a friend as well as a tutor, raved in English and 
German about the great things his pupil would do, and 
by a supreme act of self-sacrifice warmly applauded her 
resolution to go abroad and study her art in Milan for the 
next three years, under that renowned master Lamperti. 

“And then,” said Herr Kaulitz, clutching his long light 
hair in his excitement — “ then you zall zee — mine lofely 
Miss Bouzher, she take the vorr’ld by sthorrrm — Bah — by 
sthorrrm ! by em Wilberwind—?^ tornado, as you call him.” 

So, in three months’ time from her first interview with 
Mr. Trenfield, Frances Bourcher, with hope springing up 
in her heart as grief faded gradually away — with proper 
confidence as to what with three years’ correct training 
that grand voice of hers might accomplish — with every- 
thing for her safety and happiness at Milan carefully ar- 
ranged by Mr. Trenfield— left England without any inten- 
tion of returning for three years. 

A week after her departure one of those men who earn 
a precarious livelihood by holding horses or running er- 
rands called at No. 72 Gray Street and asked for her 
It was Mrs. Stacey herself who answered the door. 


50 


A CARDIATAL SIAT. 


“Miss Boucher,” said the good lady — “she left here 
some two months ago.” 

“ I was to ask for her address,” said the man. 

“ I don’t know it. She’s gone to Italy to learn singing 
— what she wanted to go for I can’t tell — for she sings 
now better than any bird. She came and wished me good- 
by before she went.” 

“ Thank’ee, ma’am,” said the man, touching his cap. 

“Who wants to know about her?” asked Mrs. Stacey, 
sharply, realizing the man’s condition in life, and thinking 
she had been too communicative to a stranger. 

“ A Mr. Smith, ma’am,” said the fellow, touching his 
hat again and decamping. 

Mr. Smith is a general term — but the person to whom 
the cadger made his report was a tall, well-dressed young 
man who was waiting at a public-house some way off. 
The news must have been welcome to him, as he rewarded 
his messenger munificently. Then he drew himself up 
and walked out of the public-house in a bolder manner 
than he had entered it. 

“ Out of the way for at least three years,” he said, cheer- 
fully. “ What a lot a clever man can do in three years ! ” 

The speaker looked very handsome, and to him the 
world seemed prosperous as he entered his hotel, packed 
his pormanteau, paid his bill, and ordered a cab to take 
him to the western train. 


CHAPTER VL 

THE FIRST ATTACK — DEFEAT. 

It was the middle of April— an April of such sunny 
smiles and such coaxing tears that the country in general, 
and Westshire in particular, were attiring themselves in 
the gayest green, and ceasing to look with suspicion on 
the spring which had so often deceived them. The House 
was sitting, but Mr. Bourchier had not been to town since 
the Easter holidays. There were no burning party ques- 
tions at present under discussion ; and as he had been for 
some time feeling rather out of sorts, he had followed his 
doctor’s advice— to stay at Redhills and keep quiet as long 
as he could ; and Redhills in such a spring as this had attrac- 
tions enough to make one quite willing to follow such ad- 


A CARDII^AL SIN. 


51 


vice. The pleasant woods at the back of the house were 
joyous with the song of birds ; the grass on the many acres 
of rich pasture land around was just beginning to grow 
thick and long, and further away the tender green of the 
young corn on the arable fields harmonized with the 
deeper hue of the meadows. The clumps of old elm-trees, 
.scattered about, were in fresh leaf; and from the hedges 
sprung up many a tall poplar, which shone like a golden 
spire as the sun played on the tawny buds which covered it. 
Moreover, as every Westshire man knows that the air in 
that particular district is the freshest and most invigorating 
in the whole country, Mr. Bourchier could do no better 
than stay at home to recover his health. 

He was not absolutely ill ; in fact, it was only at his 
wife’s pressing request that he had consulted a doctor at 
all. He complained that he did not sleep quite as well as 
usual, often being obliged to have recourse to narcotics to 
win^sleep — that he felt nervous — in one word, not quite 
himself. He attributed it to the excitement and worry he 
had undergone, for when, in England, one man shoots 
another he is compelled to show why he did so, to the 
satisfaction of the powers that be. 

At the inquest on the unknown man — for he was never 
identified, nor was there found on him anything to tell his 
name or where he came from — at the inquest, the jury, by 
direction of the coroner, returned a verdict of manslaughter 
against Philip Tremaine Bourchier. The coroner had 
some difficulty in persuading it to do so, as nearly every 
man of the twelve was a tenant of Mr. Bourchier’s ; in- 
deed, the coroner only gained his point by saying such a 
verdict must undoubtedly be in accordance with their land- 
lord’s wish that full investigation should be made. So the 
verdict was returned, although several of the jury desired 
to add a sort of apology to it, regretting they were com- 
pelled to put Mr. Bourchier to any trouble. 

Then Mr. Bourchier was brought before the magistrates, 
committed for trial, admitted to bail, and after the pro- 
ceedings went home to dine with Sir Baker Ridley, one of 
the magistrates who committed him. He had not long to 
wait for his trial. The assizes were opened in about a 
week’s time, and without leaving the box the jury returned 
a verdict of not guilty. The judge told them most clearly 
that he had never met with a case where homicide was 
more justifiable. Mr. Bourchier, it was plain, had shot 
the man to save his own life. Although his lordship 


52 


A CARDIN-AL S/JV, 


strongly disapproved of the practice of carrying arms, it 
was well for Mr. Bourchier that his pistol was in his 
pocket. The whole conduct of the dead man showed a 
premeditated attack ; the entering into Mr. Bourchier's 
carriage should have warned him against his companion, 
and he could scarcely understand how a gentleman of such 
experience in the world could have put credence in the 
plausible tale told by the intruder, and trusted himself 
alone with him afterward. All the evidence tended to 
show that the unidentified man was a dangerous char- 
acter ; and, to the learned judge, the fact of several sov- 
ereigns being found upon him indicated that he was not 
driven by want or desperation to make the criminal at- 
tempt, but was a man who robbed whenever he could find 
the opportunity. 

There were no witnesses for the defence. Mr. Bour- 
chier’s counsel made a short speech, and gave in it his 
client’s version of the attack. Poor John Boucher’s clasp- 
knife was exhibited, and Mr. Bourchier’s coat with the cut 
in it. The case was quickly over, and, as the railway 
porter said, the accused was “acquitted honorable.” 

William, the groom, gave his evidence in a stolid man- 
ner. He answered all he was asked to answer, and as no 
one thought of asking him about the moisture he found on 
the carriage-rug, he said nothing about it. When every- 
thing was over his master complimented William upon the 
way he had given his evidence. It was a rare thing for 
Mr. Bourchier to praise his servant ; so William felt it a 
great honor, and wondered if his wages would be raised. 
Stolid as he was, he thought it rather a hardship that some 
few weeks afterward his master should find that he was 
unsuitable for the place he filled in the stable department. 
William thought he was meted out hard measure, but he 
was a steady lad, and soon obtained a better situation a 
long way off. Strange to say, after dismissing him, Mr. 
Bourchier gave him the very highest recommendations to 
his new master. 

After all, what with coroner’s inquests, magisterial in- 
quiries, and trial by jury, it can scarcely be wondered at 
that Mr. Bourchier had felt much vexed and worried of 
late ; at least that was. what all his friends said. 

The afternoon was pleasant. April was doing her best 
to tempt people out of doors by her brightness, but re- 
serving the right of trying to spoil with her showers any 
finery they might put on. Mr. Bourchier was not inclined 


A CARDINAL SUN. 


53 


to go out. He sat in his library — a large, well-propor- 
tioned room, the walls of which were absolutely corered 
with valuable books. He read, apparently without much 
interest, one of the month’s reviews. Presently a servant 
entered and informed him that a gentleman wished to 
speak to him. 

“ What is his name ? ” asked Mr. Bourchier, who was 
not in the humor to entertain visitors. 

“ He preferred not to send in any name, sir.” 

“ Go back and ask him for his name — his card, if he has 
one.” 

The man bowed, and went as commanded. In a few 
minutes he returned. “ The gentleman’s compliments, sir. 
He would rather give no name until he sees you. Par- 
ticular business, he says, sir.” 

“Tell him, if he can’t give his name to go away,” said 
Mr. Bourchier, decisively. “ I won’t be troubled with men 
without names.” 

The servant went back with the message, and Mr. Bour- 
chier resumed his review. Presently the man returned and 
handed a visiting-card to his master. “ Gentleman’s apol- 
ogies, sir. Thought it better to see you first ; but has no 
reason to be ashamed of his name.” 

Mr. Bourchier frowned and took the card. • On it was 
engraved “ Mr. Digby Bourchier ; ” and as the edge of the 
card was black, it looked as if the owner of that name was 
in mourning for someone. 

A common man might have appeared startled at the ad- 
vent of a stranger bearing a name of such ominous import 
to himself as that name was to Mr. Bourchier. But Mr. 
Bourchier was not a common man. His mind leaped rap- 
idly to conclusions, and the conclusion it leaped to at once 
was fraud — for had not John Boucher told him in clear terms 
that he had no son ? The impulse to tear the card to 
pieces, toss it into the fire, and bid the fellow begone, was 
but a momentary one. He resolved to see him and hear 
his tale. He smiled grimly as he thought how soon he 
would show the impostor the folly of attempting to palm 
himself off as a Bourchier; for Philip Bourchier, after the 
discovery of his late uncle’s letter, had not disdained to in- 
quire as to what members constituted the otlier branch of 
the family, and had learned that, unless John Boucher had 
a son, the stock was at an end. John Boucher having no 
son, this man must be an impostor. Mr. Bourchier’s spirits 
quite revived at the thouglit of the coming combat of skill, 


54 


A CARDINAL SlNi 


and the ease with which he would crush this false Digby 
Bourchier. He seated himself in a convenient position, and 
gave orders for the gentleman to be shown in. 

He was a tall young man of about twenty-one. He was 
faultlessly and fashionably dressed — so much so that his 
glossy hat and thin shining boots looked almost out of 
place in the heart of the country. He bowed politely to 
Mr. bourchier, who returned his salutation coldly and 
without rising ; then, not without some curiosity in the 
look of each, the two men’s eyes met. After a short pause 
the visitor commenced to speak. Mr. Bourchier cut him 
short. 

“ Excuse me,” he said, “ will you kindly be seated ? 
Here, if you please, where I can see you plainly.” 

Mr. Digby Bourchier obeyed, and tpok a chair at the 
side of the table facing the window. Mr. Bourchier looked 
at him with a cynical, half-amused smile on his lips, and 
with an expression of pitying superiority which must have 
been peculiarly disconcerting and exasperating to any 
young man. This one certainly felt it so. He grew very 
uncomfortable as the elder man’s hard blue eyes gazed full 
into his face. He reddened a little, and shifted uneasily 
in his seat. Doubtless he did not feel inclined to com- 
mence the conversation under such disadvantages. 

At last Mr. Bourchier withdrew his gaze ; turning his 
eyes upon the card he held between his fingers — 

“ Mr. Bourchier,” he read, with a little inflection in his 
voice — “ Digby Bourchier. Digby is one of our family 
names. Have I the honor of being in any way connected 
with you ? ” 

His visitor was recovering himself. He had rehearsed 
this scene many times, with only one actor. Now that 
there were two, it appeared a more difficult piece to play. 

‘‘ I am afraid you will be surprised, Mr. Bourchier, when 
I tell you what relationship does exist between us.” 

‘‘Yes,” answered Mr. Bourchier, quietly, “I shall be 
surprised at any relationship which may exist between us ; 
but not at what you are going to assert does exist.” 

“ Shall I tell you why I come, Mr. Bourchier ? ” 

The speaker was growing angry. 

“ If you think it worth while. But I know exactly what 
you will say : that you are the son of John Boucher, and 
that he is the rightful owner of my estate. You will pro- 
bably add you were born in America,” continued Mr. 
Bourchier, who had caught a suppressed twang which 


A CARDINAL SIN 


SS 


Di-gby Bourchier could not, try as he would, completely 
get rid of. 

“ I will tell you something more,” said the visitor, theat^ 
rically — “ I will tell you that I have every paper needful 
to prove my grandfather’s legitimacy. Does that move 
you at all, Mr. Bourchier?” 

Not at all — at least, outwardly. Mr. Bourchier shrugged 
his shoulders. 

“We have heard this stated so often that we get used to 
it. I can only say, before I wish you good-day, that I am 
sincerely pleased to see a member of the illegitimate branch 
of my family appear in such prosperous worldly circum- 
stances.” 

As he spoke he looked the well-dressed young man up 
and down. 

“ I can afford to dress well,” said Digby Bourchier. “A 
few months will put me in your place. You know, of 
course, that my father is dead ?” he added, quickly. 

Mr. Bourchier was equal to the occasion. 

“ Indeed ; I am sorry to hear it. Your father, from what 
I have heard, was too sensible a man to spend his money 
in futile lawsuits. I knew your grandfather was dead— 
but I had not heard of your father’s death.” 

He spoke so calmly and naturally that for a moment his 
listener was puzzled, and felt the disadvantages of youth 
and inexperience acutely. Yet his cards were the best, 
after all, for he knew Mr. Bourchier’s hand, although that 
gentleman never suspected it. This thought gave him 
courage. 

“Yes,” he said, “he died — some little while ago. I am 
now the owner of Redhills.” 

Mr. Bourchier bowed politely. 

“ If you like,” continued the young man, “ I will shov/ 
you the papers which establish that fact beyond doubt.” 

“Quite unnecessary, I assure you,” said Mr. Bourchier ; 
“your word will be ample for their contents.” 

The other took no notice of the sneer. 

“ I have in my pocket the certificate of marriage be- 
tween my grandfather and grandmother, and certificates 
of birth and marriage of all other members of our family, 
finishing with that of my own birth.” 

Mr. Bourchier rose. His smile was not a pleasant one ; 
his polite manner gave way to sternness. 

“You may have a wagon-load of certificates for all I 
care/’ he said ; “ but as you assert that John Boucher is 


56 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


dead, they are waste paper — for I happen to know, be* 
yond dispute, that your adopted father never had a son.” 

Here Mr. Bourchier rang the bell. His decided manner 
impressed the visitor. 

“ Mr. Bourchier,” he said, earnestly, “ you are quite in 
error ; let me convince you.” 

Not a word, sir. If you attempt to continue this fraud, 
you shall go to prison for trying to extort money under 
false pretences. Go at once. Steel,” to the servant who 
entered, “show this young man out.” 

“ Mr. Bourchier, send your servant away, and listen to 
me.” 

“ Steel, show this person out — off the grounds, mind.” 

“You are ruining yourself, Mr. Bourchier, by making 
an enemy of me.” 

“ Go to the stable and get two men. Turn this fellow 
out, if he won’t go quietly.” 

He thought it better to go quietly. He vowed to have 
a bitter revenge as the door closed behind him ; but he did 
not show any emotion before the servant, to whom he 
gave half-a-sovereign for his civility, he said. 

Mr. Bourchier had borne himself bravely, but, strange to 
say, his mental ejaculation, as he resumed his review, was 
the same as that of the young man he had dismissed so un- 
ceremoniously. “What does he know?” was the first un- 
uttered thought of each. Mr. Bourchier wondered what 
the pretender knew concerning John Boucher’s death — 
how he knew it at all ; and George Manders wondered 
w^hat Mr. Bourchier knew about the dead man’s family 
affairs. Had he said that he was aware that John Boucher’s 
son had died in infancy, as far as his own pretended inter- 
ests w^ere concerned, Manders would have thrown up the 
game. If Manders had shown any definite knowledge as 
to the fate of his asserted father, Mr. Bourchier might not 
have been so bold in his defiance or so contemptuous in 
his dismissal. The first encounter between the two men 
left in the mind of each an impVession of a certain amount 
of distrust as to his resources, but the victory was undoubt- 
edly with Mr. Bourchier. 

The little battle did him good. He felt more himself 
after it than he had felt for many days. He had no fear as 
to the self-christened Digby troubling him by aid of the 
law. The man was an impostor — John Boucher’s words, 
that he had no son, being too plain to be mistaken. All 
be wished was that he had questioned the fellow as to the 


A CAKDmAL SIN". 


57 


particulars of John Boucher’s death, and learned whether 
his identity with the man he had shot was known to his 
visitor. 

Digby Bourchier, or, more properly, George Manders, 
was duly shown out of the lodge-gate. He gave a linger- 
ing glance, as he departed, at Redhills and the glories 
thereof ; then, when alone, he gritted his teeth and swore 
pleasantly to himself. His first essay in villainy had been 
much like a failure, almost bad enough to make a novice 
believe that after all honesty is the best policy. However, 
he was not so utterly cast down as to adopt that theory 
yet ; he had other cards to play. There was the knowledge 
of how his pretended father died — a strong trump. If that 
failed to score, there was Frances in the background ; she 
was evidently ignorant of what she was entitled to. He 
could either enlighten her, or, for the sake of a subsidy from 
Mr. Bourchier, keep her in the dark. The thing was to 
serve George Manders first. 

He walked on and on, considering how to act. Having 
left his portmanteau at Brackley, he took that road. He 
had walked to Redton in the morning, and felt quite 
equal to walking back again. The pull up Steepsides, 
from the Redton face, is a hard one, and having reached 
the highest point of the road he sat down to rest before 
commencing the descent. As he staid at Brackley to- 
night, he was indifferent as to time. The sun was bright 
and high, so, with the carelessness of youth, he sat down 
on the damp bank, and, leaning back, pulled his hat over 
his eyes. By-and-by the gentle rustle of branches, the 
twittering birds, and his own varied thoughts seemed to 
get mixed, and he dozed off on the roadside. He may 
have slept twenty minutes, when a gentle touch on his 
waistcoat fob awoke him. He sprang up, and as he did 
so one end of his watch-chain fell loose, and a few yards 
away he saw a man running from him at full speed. Mr. 
Manders being young and unphilosophical, obeyed the 
natural impulse of giving chase. Fast as the would-be 
pilferer fled, his pursuer’s long legs gained on him ; so 
much so, that casting a hasty glance behind him, and see- 
ing the uselessness of a straightforward flight, he sprang 
suddenly into the underwoocf, hoping in its intricacies to 
baffle pursuit. Justly indignant at the attempted crime, 
Manders, heedless of his attire, followed him. Whether 
he would have overtaken him is a matter of doubt, but, 
unfortunately for the fugitive, his foot caught in some ob- 


58 


A CARDmAL SIM 


Stacie, and he fell forward on his face. Before he could 
rise Manders was on him, and delighted to find some ob- 
ject on which he could wreak vengeance, pummelled him 
to his lieart’s content. The fallen man took his punish- 
ment silently, covering the back of his neck’ with his 
hands, but not otherwise objecting. His assailant, who 
was out of breath, and found the man was very hard 
hitting, paused in his exercise. 

“Now, get up,” he said, giving his victim a final kick — 
“get up and let me look at you.” 

The man, a stoutly-built rascal in a fur cap, got up into 
a sitting posture. “ I say,” he said, “ don’t let’s have no 
more of this. What’s beating I for, I want to know ! ” 

Manders laughed at his- question. ‘‘You impudent 
blackguard ! after just trying to rob me. Get up ; I’ll 
take you to the nearest magistrate.” 

“ Rob you ! ” said the culprit ; “ so you say, if you like, 
but you can’t prove it. My word’s as good as yourn. I 
knows the law ; you can’t convict me on your own evi- 
dence — not you.” 

“Get up,” said Manders, amused ; “get up ; I’ll try, at 
any rate.” 

“ You see,” said the man, “ you can’t ; you’ll have a lot 
of trouble for nothing. I shall have something to say 
about ’sault and battery, too.” 

“ Come along,” said Manders, to amuse himself, although 
he had no intention of trying to punish the man further. 
“ We’ll see what my friend Mr. Bourchier says to-morrow.’* 

He used Mr. Bourchier’s name, for he had learned he 
was a terror to evil-doers in that district. 

The fellow pricked up his ears at the name. “ Be he a 
friend of yourn ? ” he asked. 

Manders nodded. 

“Well, Mr. Bourchier, he wouldn’t commit me, not he.’* 

“ Why not, you rascal ? ” 

“ He won’t, not he. I shall just speak to him in private, 
and he’ll let me go soon enough.” 

Manders’s perception was very quick ; there was some- 
thing in the man’s manner that made his heart beat. 

“VVell, perhaps I’ll let you go,” he said ; “but tell me 
what you would say to Mr. Bourchier.” 

“Never you mind what I’d say. ’Tain’t your business.” 

Manders reflected how he could get what "he wanted from 
his new acquaintance ; the latter also seemed to be turning 
something over in his nar-'^'w brain. 


A CARDINAL SIN 


you a friend of Mr. Bourchier’s ?’^ he asked. 

I told you I was.” 

And a stranger down here, I’m thinking?” 

“ Quite — never been near the place before, my man.” 
The speaker was getting very hopeful. 

‘‘ I tried to speak to Mr. Bourchier, but he wouldn’t stop 
to hearken. Now, look here, if you wants to do your 
friend Mr. Bourchier a kindness like, you take him a mes- 
sage from me.” 

“All right,” said Manders, with apparent indifference. 
“ First you try to rob me, then want me to take your mes- 
sages. Never mind, let’s hear it.” 

“You tell Mr. Bourchier that the man who found the 
bundle he lost a while ago will give it to him for a reward 
of ten pounds — no, say twenty pounds, not a penny less.” 

Excited as Manders felt he betrayed no emotion. 

, “ It’s valuable, then ? ” he said, carelessly. 

“ Mebbe ’tis, mebbe ’tisn’t ; he knows.” 

“ What’s your name, then ? I must let him kn6w that ?” 

“ My name’s Jim Stokes, of Redton.” 

“ How do you get your living, I wonder ?” asked Man- 
ders, for the sake of saying something, while he decided on 
a course of action. 

“ Sometimes I earns it by the sweat of my brow, and 
sometimes I don’t,” answered Mr. Stokes. 

“Well, you get off now and think yourself lucky. I’m 
going back to the house and will tell Mr. Bourchier what 
you say. If the property is really valuable I dare say he’ll 
send the money for it this evening.” 

The poacher rose and forced his way out from the un- 
dergrowth. Manders followed him leisurely, taking care 
that Mr. Stokes was not on the watch to see whether he 
returned to Redhills or not. Then feeling certain that his 
enemy was delivered into his hand, the young man went 
to the little inn and ordered as good a dinner as Redton 
could give him. 

When it grew dark he set off in search of James Stokes. 
He ascertained the place of his dwelling from one of the 
stable-boys at the inn, stating as his reason for inquiry 
after such a disreputable character, that he heard he had a 
clever dog for sale. Men like Mr. Stokes are seldom with- 
out a dog to sell, so the excuse seemed quite natural, and 
Manders was duly directed to the hovel. He found it 
after some tro.uble, and about half-past eight rapped at the 
rickety door. Stokes opened it, and his visitor stepped 


6o 


A CAJ^Dimi S/M. 


into the room. There was a fire burning on the hearth ; 
glowing, not blazing ; and as this was the only light in the 
room, little could be seen. The outline of a bottle was 
visible on an old table near the fire, showing that Mr. 
Stokes was not without a solace for his solitude. He did 
not try to prevent Manders from entering his castle, but 
without removing his pipe from his mouth, growled 
out 

‘‘ What, you here again ! What be wanting with me 
again ? ” 

“ Shut the door and get a light,” said Manders. 

Stokes shut and bolted the door. He then rummaged 
up a candle end and lit it, thereby revealing in full dis- 
tinctness his squalid surroundings. 

“ I’ve seen Mr. Bourchier,” said Manders. “ He has 
asked me to come and settle this matter for him.” 

“ I thought he’d a-come himself,” said Stokes, surlily ; 
“ not send a messenger.” 

‘‘ I could do as well,” he said. 

“ Have you brought the coin ? ” asked the poacher. 

‘ I have brought some money,” replied Manders, cau- 
tiously. “But before I hand you any, Mr. Bourchier told 
me to ask, if it was the parcel which must have fallen out 
of the dog-cart on the night he had the struggle with the 
man ?” 

Stokes put on a cunning grin, and glanced up with his 
small sharp eyes at the questioner. “ All right,” he said, 
“ that be the parcel, sure enough, as dropped out of the 
dog-cart on the Brackley Road — Mr. Bourchier, he’ll know 
it soon enough.” 

Manders would have given five times twenty pounds for 
the parcel — all the money he had left now was devoted to 
the game he was playing — and the poacher’s demand was 
only a fair incidental expense. But it was as well to get 
off as cheaply as possible. 

“ Then what shall I give you for it ? Twenty pounds is 
absurd.” 

Stokes brought his hard hand down with an emphatic 
thump on the table, and said, prefacing his words with a 
strong and highly esteemed oath — 

“ Twenty pounds, I said — not a farden less. If you’ve 
got twenty pounds to pay me, out with it — if not, go back 
and get it if you want the thing.” 

Manders thought he had better pay what was asked — 
the man evidently was quite determined — so he said no 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


6i 


more, but, drawing out four five-pound notes, laid them on 
the table, near to the candle, taking the precaution to keep 
his hand upon them. Mr. Stokes’ eyes glistened at the 
sight. 

“Now,” said Manders, “go and get what you have to 
sell.” 

With his eyes ever and again turning to the money, as 
if in fear it might vanish, the poacher, from some locker 
or recess in one corner of his den, drew forth the bag 
which John Boucher had carried with him the night he 
was shot. He -placed it in front of Manders, keeping his 
hands upon it as carefully as if it was the notes. Then 
the exchange was duly effected, and, as the poacher began 
to examine the notes jealously, Manders not less eagerly 
opened the bag. 

He had been right in buying it, as it proved beyond a 
doubt that the dead man was John Boucher. It contained 
only a few personal articles, but several of them were well- 
known to Manders. The poacher, having pocketed his 
money, eyed him curiously. 

“ Doesn’t seem much value here,” said Manders, with 
affected contempt. 

“Value or not, Mr. Bourchier won’t like your looking at 
it,” said Stokes, in his paymaster’s interest. 

“ Suppose you mind your own business, my friend,” 
said Manders, shutting the handbag. “You’ve sold, I’ve 
bought — there’s an end of it.” 

Somehow, although twenty pounds to Mr. Stokes’ im- 
agination had seemed a large sum — a fabulous sum — now 
that it was his own it appeared far less than he was en- 
titled to, and a most unpleasant feeling stole over him that 
he had cheated himself in the transaction. He grew very 
sulky at the thought. 

“Yes, I have sold,” he growled — “sold, like a fool I be, 
for twenty pounds. Damme ! ” continued Mr. Stokes, 
angrily and regretfully, “ I believe I could ’a’ got forty, 
ay, fifty, pound for that thing.” 

Manders, who hoped to buy a great deal more than he 
had bought, was pleased to see this growing cupidity. He 
laughed, but did not deny that the seller had made a bad 
bargain. Stokes began to lose his head. He had acted 
very cautiously until the present time. He had kept his 
findings and the curious events he had witnessed a secret 
from everyone, even his boon companions. He had 
waited patiently until his harvest rarne— then he had 


62 


A CAJ^DIN'AL Sm 


reaped it — to the extent of twenty pounds. The grain had 
been garnered so easily that he felt he liad not put the 
sickle in deep enough. 

“ I say, young man,” he remarked, with a meaning in 
his voice which made Manders’ ears tingle, “you tell your 
master that mebbe as I’ve got something else to sell him 
besides this — but not such a bargain.” 

Now" w"as the time for George Manders to play a bold 
card. Being a young man, he was fond of rash play and 
stage effect. He laughed quietly. 

“ Mr. Bourchier isn’t my master, and I may as well tell 
you that as yet you’ve sold him nothing. What you had 
to sell you sold to me — he knows nothing about it.” 

Stokes’ face was a picture. The earlier events of the 
day had shown him the strength of Manders’ arm — indeed, 
his ribs were yet' aching from his drubbing — or else he 
would have tried a hand-to-hand conclusion with him. He 
did not so much blame himself for the mistake. The 
crisp, w"hite credentials which Manders had shown and 
given him seemed unimpeachable, as he could not have 
imagined anyone except the principal being willing to 
give twenty pounds for a few things not worth ten shil- 
lings. His only comfort was that he had the money safe 
enough in his pocket. 

“ Come,” said Manders, “ what else have you to sell ? 
I’ve more money to spare, so perhaps we can have an- 
other deal.” 

Mr. Stokes indulged in a few peonies of speech — fine, 
full-blown ones. Then he turned savagely to his visitor. 

“ You get out of this ; I don’t know wjio or what you 
be. Get out of my house, or I’ll try and murder you.” 

“No, you won’t, my friend. I’ll get out just when I 
choose, and when I know all I want to know. Shall I tell 
you who I am ? ” 

Mr. Stokes was understood to say he didn’t care a dash, 
etc., who he was, and to reiterate his request to be left to 
his undoubted right — solitude. Manders drew himself to 
his full height and looked his surly companion full in the 
face. His mocking manner quite vanished — he spoke 
sternly and impressively. 

“You fool, I will tell you who I am. Do you think I 
was going about buying up your rubbish for my own 
pleasure ? I am a London detective, down here on this 
business. I know nearly all I want to know, and unless 
you explain a few matters clearly, you go with me to 


A CARDIN-AL S/JV. 63 

Longmere Jail to-night, and when you come out you’ll 
come out to swing. Now, what have you got to say ? ” 

Nothing apparently. Mr. Stokes, who had a proper awe 
of that mysterious creature, a London detective, collapsed 
entirely ; he sunk, with trembling lips, back into his only 
chair. 

“ What have you to say ? ” cried Manders, savagely, 
catching hold of his shoulder and shaking him. 

“ I didn’t, s’help me !” stammered the poacher. “I was 
in the hedge all the time. I only picked up the bundle.” 

“Sit up,” said Manders, “and listen. This is youronly 
chance. You tell me everything you know — don’t you 
hide a single thing ; if you do, I shall find it out. I don’t 
want to be hard on you, and if you tell me the exact truth 
you shall have another twenty pounds ; if you don’t. Long- 
mere Jail — and the rest.” 

“Let a chap think a bit,” pleaded Stokes. The mention 
of twenty pounds to be gained was not unheeded ; indeed, 
he thought his prospects were growing brighter. 

Manders pulled out his watch. 

“I’ll give you five minutes,” he said. “Then, if you 
don’t tell all, on goes the hand-cufifs, and you will sleep at 
Longmere.” 

The poacher commenced his deliberations with a long 
pull at the bottle, then he rumpled up his hair, and did 
his best to think himself out of his strait. He would not 
have been so uncomfortable, had he known that his antag- . 
onist was in quite as uneasy a state of mind, and was cast- 
ing about for afresh move to make if Mr. Stokes eventually 
resolved to defy him. Outwardly he was the picture of 
indifference. It was a curious sight. The wretched hovel, 
lighted up by a flaring candle end, the sullen ruffian 
crouching in his chair, and ever and anon casting furtive 
glances at his apathetic tormentor, who sat on the rickety 
table, and in his elegant clothes seemed utterly out of place 
with his surroundings. 

“Time’s up,” said Manders at 'last. Stokes looked up. 

“ I say, you’ll pay the money down honorable if I splits.” 

“ Of course I will ; it costs me nothing. Look here, see 
it,” and the speaker shook the notes before him. 

“Well, then,” said Stokes, “I’ll tell you all I know.” 

“All, mind,” said Manders, sternly. 

“ If I say all, I means all,” answered the poacher. 

“Very well ; get another candle, and begin.” 

Stokes obeyed. He found another candle, which he 


64 


A CARDINAL SIN 


lighted at the remnants of the first one ; then, after an 
other pull at his bottle, he began his tale, to which the 
self-called detective listened with befitting gravity. 

Not only once was the tale told. Over and over again 
his listener heard it. He cross-questioned the narrator on 
every possible point, until he was fully convinced that the 
man was telling the truth, and telling also all he knew. 
He impressed every incident upon his mind — time, spot, 
words that passed, and action that took place. He was 
particular as to the order in which Mr. Bourchier did those 
eccentric things, after the man fell from the dog-cart. In 
fact, he might have sat with Mr. Stokes until morning 
dawned, getting at every item of evidence he could give, 
but at last, either from the severe and unaccustomed strain 
laid on his brain by the questions he was called upon to 
answer, or from the recurring sips from the bottle, the wit- 
ness began to grow so bewildered that Manders found he 
was of no further use. He rose, and paying him his easily- 
earned money, assumed his former severe air. 

“Now look here, Stokes ; you keep quiet, not a word of 
this to anyone until I send for you. There may be more 
money yet for you, if you can keep a silent tongue in your 
head.” 

Stokes promised obedience with drunken emphasis ; he 
bade his visitor an effusive and grateful good-night, for, 
after all, the transaction had been a very profitable one to 
him. 

It may be as well to mention here that the possession of 
forty pounds to Mr. Stokes meant the power of buying 
forty pounds’ worth of drink. He shut up his hovel the next 
day, and removing to Blacktown, set steadily to work to 
enjoy his riches in his own fashion. Having found a pe- 
culiarly fiery tap which suited his palate exactly, by the 
time he had finished an equivalent to thirty sovereigns, he 
saw unmentionable horrors — such horrors that life became 
a burden to him, and in a delirious frenzy he threw himself 
from a four-story window, and that was the end of him. 
His acquaintances at Redton did not hear of this termina- 
tion to his career. They neither missed nor inquired for 
him, but next autumn, in his absence, the stock of pheas- 
ants and other game on the neighboring preserves was 
greater than it had been for some years. 

Manders walked back to the inn in high spirits, hum- 
ming his favorite tunes and commending his own wit. He 
explained that he had been detained, and must stay the 


A CARDINAL SIN 


65 


night at Redton — perhaps longer. He ordered a messen- 
ger to be sent off by daybreak to fetch his bag from Brack- 
ley ; then he went to rest, feeling like a general who, al- 
though defeated in a recent engagement, has been able to 
bring up such reinforcements, to devise such irresistible 
strategic moves, since his reverse, that the battle which is 
imminent to-morrow is certain to be a victory for him, the 
only doubtful matter being the amount of booty to be ac- 
quired. 


CHAPTER VH. 

THE SECOND ATTACK — VICTORY. 

Mr. Bourchier was dawdling over a late breakfast. Lat- 
terly he had not appeared at that meal until long after the 
other members of his family had finished, his bad nights 
being the excuse for his late appearance. He sat at the 
table alone, but his wife was in the bay window, with some 
fancy work in her hands. After the manner of good wives, 
she glanced across from time to time to see that her hus- 
band was in want of nothing, and felt quite unhappy at no- 
ticing how little he required to satisfy his appetite. Now 
and again she addressed a remark to him, which he an- 
swered courteously enough, but in an abstracted way. 
Presently she asked 

“ Who was the man who came to see you yesterday ? ” 

“ A young fellow pestering me about a troublesome per- 
sonal piece of business,” answered her husband. 

“You had to order him out, my maid tells me.” 

“Yes; I was not inclined to listen to him any longer. 
He would not take the hint, so I was obliged to speak 
plainly.” 

“ His name was Bourchier, was it not ? ” Mrs. Bourchier 
had learned this from her maid — Steel, the footman, hav- 
ing of course read the card he brought in. 

Mr. Bourchier looked annoyed. His wife evidently ex- 
pected an explanation. 

“ He calls himself so. Says he is one of my Uncle Dig- 
by’s illegitimate descendants. I hoped all that bother was 
at an end.” 

“ He won’t go to law with you again, I hope. These 
matters all read so unpleasantly in the papers.” 

“ He seems to threaten it ; but I don’t think he will.” 

5 .’ 


66 


A CARDir^AL S/JV. 


“Would it not be better to pay a thousand or two, and 
settle the affair forever ? You know best, of course. 
Philip ; but I don’t want the old scandal raked up again/* 

“ Neither do 1. I would pay any reasonable sum to 
avoid law. Perhaps I was too hasty yesterday, and should 
have suggested it. I will try and see him again soon.” 

Mr. Bourchier was speaking the truth — he would have 
paid a very considerable sum to settle the matter. 

Just then the door opened and two girls entered. One 
of them was about twenty, the other about eighteen years 
of age. Each was dressed in a well-fitting riding habit, 
and wore a coquettish hat and tanned gloves. They ran 
over to Mr. Bourchier and kissed him lovingly. He re- 
turned the salutes, and his eyes grew softer and his face 
looked kinder than we have seen it look as yet ; for, stern 
and hard as the man was to outsiders, he was proud of and 
passionately fond of his children. Who, can say it was not 
the thought of his children, and the difference a slip of 
paper made to them, that turned the scale on a certain 
occasion, and nerved him to do an act of such subtle 
cruelty ? 

His daughters were fair English girls. Mr. Bourchier 
was a handsome man, and his wife had possessed great 
beauty. Mabel, the elder girl, inherited the stately form 
of the father ; Josephine, the younger, the shorter stature, 
but sweeter features of the mother ; Mabel was intellectual, 
Josephine frivolous— moreover, her pretty head was full 
of romance ; full of heroes of the usual three-volume novel 
type — dear, darling, handsome, and rather naughty creat- 
ures, usually in the Guards. The education of both 
sisters was completed — Mabel had been presented ; Jose- 
phine was looking forward to that ceremony this season. 
Mr. Bourchier thought the most highly of his elder 
daughter’s capacities and qualities, but it was the younger 
he loved the most. There was no one in the world — not 
even Allan, his eldest son and heir — who dared to say such 
things, dared to do such things, to Philip Bourchier as his 
daughter Josephine could say -and do with impunity. 

Mabel kissed her father calmly but affectionately ; Jose- 
phine threw her arms round him and was effusive in her 
greeting. 

“ Come,” she cried, “we are going to ride to Longmere ; 
you must come with us. No denial, if you please.” 

She shook her riding-whip at him, and pouted as she 
saw by his face he was going to make an excuse. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


67 


“ Letters,” she continued ; “ let them wait. People to 
see — let them wait. The day is lovely, and next month we 
shall all be shut up in London, and you so busy we shall 
see nothing of you. Come, now, do — do — do ! ” 

“ Your papa is tired, my dear,” interposed Mrs. Bour- 
chier. “ I dare say he would rather be left in peace.” 

“ It is this moping indoors makes the poor man ill,” 
said Josephine. “ After a good trot on a morning like this 
he will be much better.” 

I wonder if it would do you 'good, Philip ? ” said Mrs. 
Bourchier, inclined to agree with Josephine. 

“It may,” said her husband. “ Anyway, I must obey my 
tyrant. Finey, dear, ring the bell, and order my horse.” 

The girl clapped her hands, kissed her father again, and 
the horse was ordered at once. 

A handsomer and happier-looking trio could scarcely 
have been found in England than Philip Bourchier and his 
two daughters as they rode along the winding drive to the 
lodge ; the father sitting his horse as only an English gen- 
tleman accustomed to riding from his childhood can sit a 
horse ; the daughters, at his side, with their graceful fig- 
ures, showing to the best advantage as they sat in the sad- 
dles in a way that showed their education in horseman- 
ship was perfect. If Mr. Bourchier looked rather pale 
and thin, he was smiling as he listened to the talk of his 
companions. The soft spring wind was pleasant, the sun 
was shining, but everything looked fresh and bright from 
recent showers — all clean and new, not a speck of dust on 
leaf, flower, or grass. It was a lovely morning, as Jose- 
phine had averred, and Mr. Bourchier could not help 
yielding to its charm, and hoped for a while to leave care 
and annoyance behind him, and enjoy this ride with his 
children. 

But his ride was destined to be a very short one. The 
lodge-keeper’s wife opened the gate, and, bidding Mr. 
Bourchier a respectful, and his daughters a cheerful, good- 
morning, closed it again behind them. The girls reined in 
their horses for a moment to say a few words to the old 
woman, so that Mr. Bourchier rode out alone on to the 
main road. Then a tall young man, who appeared to rise 
from the opposite bank, approached, and, laying a firm 
hand on the horse’s rein, compelled him to stop. The 
rider at once recognized the self-styled Digby Bourchier, 
his visitor of yesterday. 

But there was something different in the man’s appear- 


68 


A cAi^nmAL sm. 


ancc ; something not accounted for by an entire change in 
his dress — for now he was clad in garments more fitted to 
the country — there was a gravity, a solemnity in the ex- 
pression of his face which made Mr. Bourchier wonder, 
even fear. As the horse stopped, he came round to the off 
side, still keeping his right hand tightly on the rein, as 
though he feared the rider would endeavor to escape him. 

I must see you — speak to you alone,” he said. 

“ Let go my horse,” said Mr. Bourchier, fiercely, but in 
an undertone, his daughters being within ear-shot. 

“ Never, until you promise to return to your house with 
me. I have much to say.” 

There was command — menace even — in his voice. Al- 
though totally unaccustomed to being ordered what to do, 
Mr. Bourchier felt he must obey. He could not risk a 
struggle in the highway before his daughters, and, in truth, 
he longed, although he feared, to know what this man had 
to reveal. Let it be the worst, it would be better than un- 
certainty as to the extent of his knowledge. 

The girls came up at this moment, laughing at some 
quaint remark they had extracted from the old retainer at 
the lodge. They looked with surprise at the stranger talk- 
ing to their father. He raised his hat mechanically, and 
appeared to be waiting anxiously for Mr. Bourchier to an- 
swer some question. 

“ If your business is so pressing,” they heard the latter 
say in his clear, incisive tones, “ so pressing that you can 
take no denial, I must return to the house with you, I sup- 
pose.” 

“It is of the utmo'st importance,” said the unknown, im- 
pressively. 

“Very well; I will come back. My dear girls, I am 
afraid I must disappoint you. I must go back and speak 
with this — gentleman.” 

Josephine turned her head away and made an ugly face 
at the trees on the other side of the road. Mabel said — 

“Very well, papa; but we are very sorry. Can’t we 
wait for you ? ” 

“ My business, I fear, will take some time,” said the un- 
known, with a significance which did not escape Mr. Bour- 
chier. 

“ I think you had better ride on slowly,” he said ; “I will 
tell a groom to follow you at once, fslow, sir, be good 
enough to come with me.” 

He turned his horse’s head, and Manders, again raising 


A CARDIiVAL SIN. 69 

his hat in the same preoccupied way, followed him through 
the lodge gate. Mabel and Josephine exchanged looks of 
wonder, and walked their horses slowly along the road to- 
ward Longmere. 

“ How strange,” said Mabel. “ I wonder who he can be.” 

“Yes,” answered her sister. “But wasn’t he beautiful ?” 

“ I didn’t notice him much. I was too cross with him, 
bothering poor papa just at that moment.” 

“Oh, he was a lovely looking young man. Just the sort 
of creature you read about — with a pale face, large dark 
eyes and straight features, and quite unhappy looking.” 

“ My dear, don’t talk such rubbish.” 

“ He didn’t seem a bit afraid of papa, although papa 
spoke so sharply to him — you know his way, Mabel — ‘If 
your business is so pressing,’ etc.” 

Josephine mimicked her dignified father very well — it 
was the result of long and audacious practice. 

“ I wonder if we shall meet him coming back ? I am 
dying to see papa, and hear who the distinguished stranger 
is,” she continued. 

“ Finey, you are an idiot,” said Mabel, laughing. “ I 
believe the first romantic-looking young man you meet, 
with a pale face, a straight nose, and dark eyes, may run 
off with you if he chooses.” 

“ Any way,” retorted her sister, “ I shan’t run off with a 
red face and no nose to speak of, like the Honorable John.” 

The Honorable John was a gentleman, son of Lord 
Coverton, and was hopelessly in love with Mabel. Flad 
Mabel returned his passion Josephine would not have dis- 
paraged him, for the girls were true sisters. 

Then the groom appeared in the distance behind, so the 
girls quickened their pace, and trotted merrily along the 
road to Longmere. 

Mr. Bourchier, with his unexpected and unwelcome 
visitor beside him, walked his horse up the long drive to 
the house ; there he gave it in charge of a groom, whom 
he told to follow the ladies as soon as possible. He then 
conducted his visitor round the house until they arrived 
at the library window, which was a French casement, 
reaching to the ground. Drawing a key from his pocket, 
he opened the sash, and the two gentlemen entered. Mo- 
tioning the young man to seat himself, Mr. Bourchier sank 
into his customary chair, and tried to prepare himself for 
what was to come. Let it be the very worst, he must 
show no fear~let this ' Digby Bourchier, or whoever he 


^0 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


was, state that he had learned the identity of his father 
with the man Philip Bourchier shot — let him accuse him 
of having done so, not in self-defence, but to try and keep 
the inheritance he claimed, be must meet his accusations 
calmly and scornfully, and not even by a change of color 
show that he was moved ; and Mr. Bourchier, as he sat 
there waiting the onslaught of his young antagonist, felt 
he was fully equal to the task — fully prepared and able to 
put on a bold yet tranquil front. But if ever a man was 
utterly routed and defeated by unforeseen, undreamed of 
occurrences and revelations, it was Philip Bourchier, in 
that struggle about to commence. 

To rightly understand the reason for the manner in 
which Manders commenced his second attack, you must 
bear in mind that he was intensely theatrical. His stage 
effect of the preceding night had given him great confi- 
dence in his powers as an actor ; indeed, the greatest in- 
terest he now felt in his deep-laid scheme was the sen- 
sation he might be able to produce by striking some 
unsuspected stroke, revealing the existence of some un- 
thought-of mine under his antagonist’s feet, and having 
done so, enjoy his discomfiiure. The way of transgressors 
may be hard, but at times the excitement of the journey 
makes the criminal forget the pointed stones he treads on. 
The schemer had arranged the programme of this encoun- 
ter in a manner which was so original that his only feeling 
was delight at the ingenious device. He knew he had 
material different from Mr. Stokes to work upon, but his 
tools, he thought, were equal to the occasion. 

He did not accept his host’s invitation to be seated, but 
he was not at all desirous of shunning his eyes. He stood 
erect in the full light of the window, and when Mr. Bour- 
chier, after waiting with apparent indifference for him to 
commence his business, glanced up at him with a look of 
well-bred impatience on his face, he saw what certainly 
startled him. 

Mander’s whole appearance was altered. His loose coat 
was now open, his linen looked crumpled and disarranged, 
his hair dishevelled and uncared-for. His face was pale 
and full of passion ; his lips quivered and his dark eyes 
glared at Mr. Bourchier. He appeared striving to utter 
some words which the intensity of his palpable agitation 
hindered from leaving his lips. He. seemed powerless for 
the time to do more than lift his hand and point at his 
companiocu 


A CARDimL sm 


He was, indeed, a good actor — so good that he did what 
only great actors can do — carried his audience away — so 
good that Mr. Bourchier for the time forgot that it was 
not the son of the dead man standing before him, and by 
his gestures calling down the w'rath of Heaven on his fa- 
ther’s murderer— so good that, in spite of every effort, the 
guilty man felt his forehead grow clammy, and did what 
he cursed himself for doing, shrunk and quailed before the 
avenger. It was but for a second, yet long enough to 
show the actor that his art would triumph. 

“ Murderer ! ” he hissed out, approaching nearer to 
Philip Bourchier — “murderer of an innocent man ! ” 

Mr. Bourchier recovered. The sound of the man’s voice 
recalled him to himself. 

“You are mad, or drunk,” he said, in a voice almost 
steady. 

“ I am neither mad nor drunk, and you know it. Listen 
— I saw my father — I saw John Boucher last night. Was 
I dreaming ? Yes, I may have been dreaming, although I 
was awake. This, then, was my dream.” Then, fixing his 
eyes full on Mr. Bourchier’s face, yet throwing into them 
an expression as though he saw nothing except mental 
visions, the speaker, with all the modulations of his beau- 
tiful voice brought in proper play, proceeded, and his lis- 
tener’s horror grew and grew as the pretended vision was 
revealed to him. 

“ It was a moonlight night — nearly a full moon. The 
road was light as day. It was a hill — the bottom of a steep 
hill — young fir-trees and undergrowth covering each side 
of it. As I stood there I saw a dogcart coming to me. It 
halted just where I stood. Two men were in it, and the 
moonlight showed me the face of each, and one was the 
face of my father. The man driving stopped the horse — 
both men seemed to talk for a short time — then the man 
driving gave my father the reins to hold. I saw a flash, 
heard a shot, and my father fell from the seat to the road, 
dying, and his eyes met mine, but I was spell-bound and 
could not move. The other man sprung down, took a car- 
riage-lamp, gazed into his victim’s face, and rifled his 
pockets, the moon the while shining brighter than ever I 
had seen it.” 

So on and on, warming to his work as he got in full 
swing — describing with painful accuracy every action, 
every detail of that fatal night — still with his eyes fixed on 


A CARDIN-AL S/JV. 


Mr. Bourchier’s face, his clear voice still ringing in his 
ears like a knell for dying honor. On and on he went 
with merciless exactness, till, as a climax, he hurled at the 
listener — “ And the face of the man I saw in the moonlight 
was the face I am looking at now.” 

Latent superstition is natural in a greater or less degree 
to every man. Some may at last get rid of it, but many 
who scoff at visions and supernatural appearances have yet 
the lingering doubt whether, after all, there may not be 
something in them. The involuntary creeping of the flesh 
and bristling of tfle hair which happens even to the most 
skeptical, in situations which bring the thought of some- 
thing uncanny to the mind, testifies to the truth of the as- 
sertion I make, that all men, more or less, have supersti- 
tion — the extent of which can only- be known, even to 
themselves, under peculiar circumstances. 

It was so with the listener — his horror grew and grew, 
as every act of his, every trifling act which was so branded 
upon his memory, was, by word and gesture reproduced 
Ly the man who stated he learned them in a vision — who 
stood near him and thrilled him through and through with 
his accusing voice. Can we wonder that Mr. Bourchier fell 
into the trap, and in spite of skepticism as to things super- 
natural, was bound to feel that, unless it was revealed by 
some higher power than human, no one could have de- 
picted the scene ? Can we wonder that, as his horror cul- 
minated with the last sentence hurled at him, he leaned 
over the table and covered his face with his hands, striving 
to shut out what seemed to him like a frightful dream ? 

There was dead silence in the room for some moments 
while Mr. Bourchier kept his face hidden and by attitude 
and manner confessed his guilt. He was not a religious 
man, but, like many others who disbelieve in the blessings 
of Heaven, had a lurking belief in its punishments. So, 
for a while, he sat and made no further sign. Then the 
first law of nature, self-preservation, asserted itself, and, 
by an effort, he strove to collect his shattered forces and 
present the best front he could to the enemy. He raised 
his head and attempted to smile. 

“ Excuse me,” he said ; “ I have been far from well lately, 
and your wild words ”-^then he ventured to look across at 
Digby Bourchier and saw the trap he had fallen into. 

The young man was sitting in a graceful, careless atti- 
tude ; every trace of his passion and righteous indignation 
had vanished, but in place of them his lips wore a mock^ 


A CARDIN-AL SIN. 


13 

ing smile, and his eyes an expression of triumph which 
spoke volumes to Mr. Bourchier. 

“Guilty conscience,” said the avenger, almost cheerfully. 
“ Terrible thing a guilty conscience must be, I guess. 
Never thought you’d have thrown up your hand in that 
fashion so soon.” 

There was a very strong American twang in his voice 
now. 

Philip Bourchier was trembling with rage — he scarcely 
knew what he was about — his one idea was vengeance. 
With a shaking hand he tried to open a drawer in front of 
him. Manders’ keen eye watched every motion. 

“ No you don’t,” he said, thrusting his right hand into 
his breast. “ Where I come from we make it a point to 
shoot first when we can.” 

He was right to be wary, for, at that moment, heedless 
of consequences, Philip Bourchier would have shot him 
like a dog, and never regretted the act. » 

“Now,” said Manders, “ sit up and let us talk like sen- 
sible men who don’t believQ in visions. Shall I speak first ? ” 

Mr. Bourchier said nothing. 

“ It happened I found a man last night who saw my 
father killed as I described it to you. You know if it’s 
correct or not.” 

“He was no more your father than I am,” said Mr. 
Bourchier. 

“Look here, Mr. Bourchier, I say he’s my father, and 
you say you didn’t murder him. When you can prove that. 
I’ll prove the other fast enough.” 

“ Who was the fellow who told you this tale ! ” asked Mr. 
Bourchier ; “ for, if it was known to one, why not to all ?” 

“Never mind him — I can find him when I want him. 
Don’t you be afraid ; I’ll stop his mouth all right.” 

His hearer shuddered — not so much from fear, but be- 
cause he realized he was at the mercy of his companion. 

“ Although you shot my father, I don’t want to be vin- 
dictive. You do what’s right to the. son, and we’ll make 
things comfortable.” 

“ You are not John Boucher’s son.” 

“ I say I am. I have every paper establishing my rights. 
They were all in my father’s pocketbook ; the one he had 
that night.” 

“ How did you get that book ? ” Mr. Bourchier had 
now given up all attempts to deny his guilt. 

It was forwarded through the post by some farmer, I 


^4 


A CARDmAL sm. 


suppose, who picked it up on the road. Here s the lettei 
sent with it.” 

He handed farmer Davis' note to Mr. Bourchier. Man- 
ders’ explanation of the way he acquired the pocket-book, 
was so natural and simple, that, had he not deemed it im- 
possible for a man to talk so coolly of compromising his 
father’s murder, Mr. Bourchier might have believed him 
to be the man he personated. 

All this practical conversation was bringing his mind to 
its usual bent. He confessed to himself that this rascal 
had defeated him ; that to a certain extent he held him in 
his power. He guessed he would wield this power to his 
own advantage. Well, he must pay, and be thankful that 
money could hush the thing up. H^-ving resolved this, 
Mr. Bourchier wasted no more time. 

“ Now, how much do you want ? ” he asked sternly, and 
in a business-like tone. 

I .haven’t quite made up my mind,” replied the other, 
in the same business-like way. 

“ Make it up at once, then. How much money ?” 

I am not thinking altogether of money.” 

Think of it now, then — tell me how much, and let me 
get rid of you.” 

“ Well,” said Manders, his twang coming to the surface, 

if you won’t speak of any other equivalent — just tell me 
what the estate’s worth.” 

“ That is my affair, not yours — name your price.” 

They tell me, about here,” drawled Manders, “ it’s 
worth from ten to twelve thousand a year, counting the 
red hematite.” 

Mr. Bourchier disdained to reply. 

Well, put it at the lowest, ten thousand — you give me 
half, and we’ll cry quits.” 

'‘You fool ! ” said Philip Bourchier, with cutting scorn. 

You fool ! not to know me better than that” 

“Then I’ll have what belongs to me — the whole of it,” 
said Manders, sullenly. 

“ You had better try — the law is open to all.” 

“ I will try, and, anyway, you’ll hang for murder.” 

“ If you had studied the law you would know that, 
granting your accusation is true, a man, in England, can’t 
be tried twice for the same offence. If you doubt me, I 
will show you chapter and verse. There are plenty of law 
books here.” The speaker’s sarcastic manner was fast re- 
turning. 


A CARDINAL SIN 


75 


Well, I can do as bad. I can tell every one the tale ; 
publish a circular and send it round ; make it talked of all 
over the country ; and you won’t dare move a finger to 
stop me.” 

Yes, he could do all that. Mr. Bourchier might laugh 
scornfully, but the fact remained. 

“And, I guess,” continued Manders, “when the judge is 
asked to decide between you and me, a little bag of things 
which will identify the man you shot as my father won’t 
prejudice him in your favor.” 

Philip Bourchier’s respect for his antagonist w’as rising 
— he was clearer sighted than he thought him — for he had, 
as soon as its effects had worn off, considered the theatrical 
display a childish and useless piece of work. At any rea- 
sonable price he must buy him off. 

“ I will not prolong the discussion,” he said. “ Name 
some reasonable sum — it shall be paid you.” 

“ I told you before, when you cut me so short, I was not 
thinking of money only.” 

“ What were you thinking of ? ” 

“ I want to get on in the world.” 

“With your talents,” said Mr. Bourchier, politely, 
“ there should be little fear as to that.” 

“No, I suppose not,” continued Manders, choosing to 
take his words literally. “ But, you see, I want a start, 
I want to mix with the right sort of people,” he con- 
tinued. 

“ Go on.” 

“ I’m your cousin — I’m Digby Bourchier — and, as I’m 
as legitimate as you are, the head of the family. I want 
you to acknowledge me as Digby Bourchier, to let me 
visit you here or in London, whenever I like. I shan’t be 
a disgrace to you, don’t you be afraid.” 

“ Go on,” said Mr. Bourchier. 

“ Of course,” continued the new head of the family, “ I 
must have some money ; perhaps a thousand or so a year. 
I’ll ask for it when I want it ; but what I want chiefly is 
for you to look upon me as your cousin. You’d soon get 
used to it, and find me a good sort of a fellow. We should 
all be friendly after a bit.” 

With that gift which a good counsel has of identifying 
himself with his client — an actor feeling himself the char- 
acter he portrays — Manders was speaking as naturally as 
though he really was Digby Bourchier, His listener was 
for a moment staggered. 


76 


A CARDIA^AL Sm. 


“ Friendly ! he said. “ You want to be friendly with a 
man you accuse of killing your father ! ” 

“Well, now’,” continued Manders, almost kindly, I 
don’t think so much about that shooting ; I wasn’t so 
awfully fond of my father. I dare say he riled and worked 
you up. I expect I would liave done the same in your 
place to a man who was coming to take everything from 
me. No, I’ll forgive all that ; you meet , me in this, and 
I’ll never allude to it by word or look. You try me — I 
shall be a credit to the family.” 

He spoke with such good-humored cynicism — his voice 
was so pleasant — that Mr. Bourchier, strange as it may 
seem, liked him the better for his cool audacity. 

“Now,” he said, to hunior him, “will you kindly say 
what you intend to give me in exchange for these modest 
demands of yours ?” 

“Well, I’ll do what you like except sign aw^ay my rights. 
I won’t do that ; but as long as you treat me well, I won’t 
press them, or against your son after you, if you leave me 
a proper sum.” 

“You needn’t trouble ; I’m not going to do anything of 
the sort. If you’ll allow me to open my drawer. I’ll write 
)'ou out a check for tw’o thousand pounds, and trust I shall 
never see you again.” 

Manders rose — justly indignant. He was not acting 
now ; every w^ord he said he felt and meant. 

“ I’ll make no terms except those I have named. I’ll 
not take a farthing. I’ll turn you out of Redhills — I’ll 
proclaim you a murderer. You think I shall ruin myself 
— never mind, I’ll ruin you. If I can’t hang you I can do 
that. I’ll go from here to London and in a w^eek you’ll 
get some strange tidings. Good-morning — you’ve had 
your chance and missed. I sw^ear I will do What I say. I 
haven’t much to lose — you have.” 

He turned to the door. Mr. Bourchier could see he was 
in grim earnest ; he knew that unpleasant consequences 
must ensue if he let him go. 

“Stop,” he said ; “you are too hasty. I must consider.” 

“ I will give you time for that — till to-morrow. Then I 
will come for your answer. I will either be a good friend 
or a bitter foe.” 

“ I will come and see you,” said Mr. Bourchier, who did 
not wish him to awaken any more curiosity with his visits. 
“ You are at the inn, I suppose ?” 

“No,” said Manders, shortly. “I shall call on you to* 

\ 


A CARDIN'AL SIN. 


11 


morrow evening. If I am admitted, not only to the house 
but to your table — presented by my right name to your 
family as a cousin, well and good. I shall understand 
without another word that you yield. If I am denied en- 
trance, I shall know the meaning of that — then matters 
will take their course. It rests with you to make things 
pleasant.” 

Without another word he opened the door and walked 
out. He thought he had conquered this time. With a 
light, quick step he went along the drive, nodded cheerfully 
and gaily to the old woman at the lodge. Some little way 
down the road he met the two girls returning from their 
ride. He raised his hat once more — a salute which only 
the younger acknowledged. He turned and looked after 
his new cousins, admiring their perfect figures and the 
way they sat their horses. Josephine, with a girl’s curios- 
ity, turned her head for a moment. 

“ I hope and trust,” said Manders, who was most sus- 
ceptible to such charms as hers, “ that matters may be ar- 
ranged pleasantly to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MAKING THINGS PLEASANT. 

To a man who, all his lifetime, has been accustomed to 
have his own way, the feeling that someone holds the 
whip-hand over him is not a pleasant one ; especially when 
he is urged to go along a road which he strongly objects 
to. It was a new sensation for Philip Bourchier to find 
he had a master, and he cast about in every direction to 
try and shake off the galling yoke. Until he had settled 
how to proceed he vouchsafed no information to his family 
as to the object of the young man’s visit. His daughters’ 
curiosity he defied with the explanation “ important pri- 
vate business.” His wife he silenced by begging her to 
say nothing about it until to-morrow, when he would 
know more concerning the matter. All the evening and 
the greater part of the night he devised plans to get rid 
of the intruder, or baited golden hooks which he hoped 
he could not resist. He thought about it over his break- 
fast ; he strolled through the grounds all the morning 
thinking about it, but could see no way out of the diffi- 


78 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


cuity. He had now only a few hours to decide, and he 
knew if he did not decide as the self-styled Digby Bour- 
chier wished, it would be war to the knife between them. 
He thought of the fellow’s last words, and could not 
help believing he would go to any extremity. If the pre- 
tender laid claim to Redhills, he could with the evidence 
he possessed prove that he, Philip Bourchier, had taken 
the life of John Boucher. In spite of all verdicts which 
had justified his act, what would the world think ? If this 
Digby Bourchier did not feel confident enough to carry 
his case into court, and simply spread the tale about as he 
threatened to do, how could he stop him ? If he indicted 
him for libel, he would plead justification — and then — Mr. 
Bourchier shuddered at the thought. At any price, the 
man must be silenced. 

Then he began to stoop and made the first signs of sub- 
mission. He wrote a note asking his antagonist to call 
on him at once ; or if he preferred it, he would come to 
the inn and see him. As he put the^ note in the envelope, 
a fresh difficulty presented itself ; he could not bring him- 
self to address it to Mr. Digby Bourchier ; yet he knew 
him by no other name. Plowever, he left the envelope 
blank, telling his messenger to take it to the inn for the 
gentleman who was staying there, and wait for an answer. 
The answer made Philip Bourchier stamp with rage. It 
ran so : 

“ Mr. Bourchier presents his compliments to Mr. Philip 
Bourchier, and begs to say he will call .at the hour he 
fixed yesterday, and will then learn Mr. Philip Bourchier’s 
decision in the manner Mr. Bourchier specified.” 

This impudent assumption of the title Mr. Bourchier, 
and the designation of himself as Mr. Philip Bourchier, 
was a supplementary declaration of war. Philip Bourchier 
knew that unless prepared to fight he must grant the pre- 
tender his own terms. He went into the house and found 
his wife. 

“Adelaide,” he said, “ I want to talk to you.” 

Mrs. Bourchier laid down the book she was reading and 
waited his pleasure. 

“ I told you who that young man was who called yester- 
day and the day before ? ” 

“Yes, Philip. There is nothing to trouble about, I hope.” 

“ I don’t know, but I fear so. There is no doubt that 
the entry of the marriage has been found. Indeed, I have 
seen the certificate.” 


A CARDmAL sm. 


yg 

Philip ! What does it mean ? ” 

“ I hardly know yet," said Mr. Bourchier, savagely. 
“But if what he says is true, it may mean Redhills." 

His wife looked at him with a terrified face. “ It seems 
impossible," she said, “after so many years." 

“ That old man kept the claim open with his law- 

suits, or it would be impossible." 

“What is to be done ?" 

“ It’s about that I want to consult you. He does not 
seem unkindly disposed in the matter.” Philip Bourchier 
clenched his teeth as force of circumstances compelled 
him to speak in favor of his new master. 

“ Oh, pay him something ! Try to arrange something ! 
cried his wife. “Think of our children!" 

“ I do. I have offered him a handsome sum, but he in- 
sists on certain conditions." 

“ What are they ? Don’t keep me in suspense." 

“ He insists that we shall recognize his legitimacy — shall 
receive him here, in fact, as one of the family. If not, he 
will fight the case." 

This seemed such a natural demand that Mrs. Bourchier 
expressed no surprise. 

“Is there any objection to it ?’’ she asked. “ Will he 
give up his claim then ?" 

“ Hardl)^ give it up ; but the matter may be arranged. 
The objection is, that by receiving him I show the weak- 
ness of my hand." 

“What is the young man like ? Is he a gentleman ? " 

“ I hardly know ; I was too much upset to notice his 
looks or manner of speech much. He has a touch of the 
American about him — I noticed that." 

“ Do you really think he could turn us out ? ’’ 

“ As sure as he is the grandson of that old fellow he can. 
The last time I spoke about the case to Clarkson he 
laughed, and asked if I had heard anything more of the 
bastard branch. Then I asked him a plain question, ‘ If 
that marriage could be proved, what then ? ’ He said, ‘ As 
there’s no human possibility of proving what never hap- 
pened, I don’t mind telling you, as a lawyer, that the title to 
Redhills is dependent on that marriage or non-marriage.’" 

Mrs. Bourchier’s tears were flowing. “Oh, it is shame- 
ful ! ’’ she said. “ To think we may be beggars at any mo- 
ment ! Oh, Philip, what shall we do ? ” 

“ I can suggest nothing, except meeting him as he 
wishes, and by-and-by trying to make a compromise." 

r 


A CARDINAL SIN 


r8o 


“ Oh, do ! ” she cried. “ Do anything you can. Ask 
him here, if yon think it best to do so.” 

“ I do think it best, Adelaide.” 

“Ask him, then. When will he come ? ” 

“ I promised to give him my answer to-day. We are 
alone to-night, he had better dine with us. I will send 
over and ask him.” 

Philip Bourchier had never found words so difficult to 
utter as these. Even the crime that weighed upon him 
seemed little compared with the self-degradation of that 
-speech. Even his wife was surprised at his haste to wel- 
come this young man who made such a change in every 
‘prospect of his life. 

“ Do as you think fit,” she said. “ I will meet him bravely, 
and play my part as well as I can.” 

Her husband kissed her kindly, and went to the library 
to write the note which signified capitulation. 

But, in yielding, he had no intention of being at this 
man’s mercy all his lifetime. He laid down a line of ac- 
tion. He would receive him, acknowledge him as his 
^cousin, conceal the distaste he felt to his society — would 
even consent to the world looking upon them as friends — 
ffie would supply him with money for a while ; then, if he 
could get from him the name of that mysterious witness, 
•and arrange matters with the latter — shipping him off to 
•the antipodes, or otherwise providing for him — Mr. Bour- 
chier could turn on his taskmaster, defy him, and kick 
him out, bidding him do his worst. His story would only 
'be regarded as a malicious act of revenge — the invention 
-of an unmasked impostor. Necessity brings strange bed- 
fellows, who can be kicked out when necessity ceases. 
The more he thought of it, the more feasible the scheme 
seemed ; he had but to be patient and wait. This man, 
Digby Bourchier, or whoever he may be, by his extraor- 
dinary determination to live as a friend within his enemy’s 
gates was sealing his own doom. 

' “ Had he really been Digby Bourchier, he might have 

done it,” he said, grimly, as he despatched his note. “Not 
being Digby Bourchier, it is but the act of a fool.” 

This second note was properly addressed to Digby Bour- 
chier, Esq., and the joy of the recipient knew no bounds ; 
he felt he had triumphed all along the line. Had it not 
been for the ordeal that awaited him in the evening, he 
would have celebrated his victory in many brandies-and- 
water ; but on the threshold of his entrance to a higher life 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


8l 

he saw it behooved him to be careful — he had a wary ahd 
unscrupulous foe to deal with. If he neglected caution, 
victory to-day might be defeat to-morrow. When the ap- 
pointed time drew near he dressed himself properly ; he 
had evening clothes with him, and blessed his foresight at 
such being the case. Then he walked quietly up to 
the great house. His confidence in his own powers 
had greatly increased ; the difficult part of the play was 
over, the rest was nothing to a clever man. As he reached 
the lodge-gate he turned round, and, fearing no observa- 
tion, as it was getting quite dark, he waved a farewell to 
an imaginary person. 

George Manders, my dear fellow,” he said, “ we must 
part here — at the entrance to my ancestral halls. Fare- 
well, George. I sliall always think kindly of you — you, 
have been a frue friend to Digby Bourchier. We part the 
best of friends, but I trust, for my sake, you will never 
dog my footsteps, force your acquaintance on me, or turn 
up at an inconvenient time. Farewell, forever.” 

He walked up the drive, knocked at the door, and was 
ceremoniously ushered into the drawing-room, as Mr. 
Digby Bourchier, by the same servant who two days be- 
fore had been instructed to accelerate his departure. The 
man was too highly trained to express the slightest aston- 
ishment. It is only in shades of down-stair regions that a 
gentleman’s servant should think of doing such a thing. 

He had naturally expected that his reception would be 
attended by some embarrassment. It was not so. Mr. 
Bourchier was perfectly polite, and expressed his pleasure 
at seeing him. He gave him his hand — coldly, of course. 
To all appearances Digby might have been nothing more 
than a new acquaintance. His host presented him to his 
wife, and then to his daughters. A few remarks were 
made about the weather, the look of the country, the 
steepness of the hills about, and then dinner was an- 
nounced. Mr. Bourchier led the way with a daughter on 
each arm, and Digby followed with his hostess. He was 
very much pleased at the way in which Mr. Bourchier had 
commenced his share of tlie compact, and determined to 
make things quite pleasant if he could. He began to per- 
suade himself that he felt a dawning affection for his new- 
found relatives. 

After the manner of all travellers who find themselves 
in a new country, he started by taking stock of his sur- 
roundings. Being for such a small party, dinner was 
6 


§2 


J CAI^DINAL Sm. 


seiVed In a small room. Everything was in quiet good 
taste, and giving little evidence of wealth. This was a 
surprise to Digby, who had an idea that people of such im- 
portance dined off silver and gold. It was the fault of his 
education that he was unaware of the value of the china 
scattered about the room, the pictures on the Avails, the 
quaint old silver table appointments — for Philip Bourchier 
was a man of taste. From inanimate objects Digby turned 
to what he understood better — people. His host at the 
head of the table, with his well-cut features and coldly 
polite manner, did not interest him much — he knew all 
about him ; so much that it was not without a little fear 
he drank his wine, in nowise doubting that if it could be 
done with safety poison would be put in it. The great ob- 
ject of his curiosity and speculation was the ladies. Mrs. 
Bourchier sat on his left hand, Josephine on his right, and 
Mabel was opposite to him. He liked Mrs. Bourchier’s 
looks ; she spoke kindly to him, and with a touch of sym- 
pathy in her voice. She had her part to play. Although 
thinking quite enough of her own station, she could stoop 
to conquer ; and, after all, a young fellow who holds the 
fate of a woman’s husband, children, and herself in the 
hollow of his hand cannot be treated like an ordinary 
chance visitor. As to his opposite neighbor, Digby coUld 
not determine whether he admired her or not. She was 
undeniably beautiful, but there was too much in her face 
to remind him of Mr. Bourchier for him to be much at- 
tracted. But there could be no mistake about Josephine. 

I call her a nice cuddleable sort of a girl,” said the young 
man to himself. “She ain’t such a queen as Frances, but 
just as pretty in her way.” He made up his mind to make 
things very pleasant for Josephine. 

But, perhaps, this new addition to their family circle 
was examined with even greater interest by the female 
members of that family. Mrs. Bourchier scarcely knew 
what to think of him ; but he was young, appeared kind 
and good-tempered ; so she hoped for the best. Mabel 
decided that, although good-looking and apparently at his 
ease among them, he was not a gentleman — except by the 
accident of haAung been born a Bourchier. Josephine, 
who seemed struck for a while with a fit of shyness, ad- 
mired his eyes and straight features, and wondered if his 
disposition was akin to that of any of her favorite heroes, 
and if he knew how to ride. She felt very curious to know 
all about this new cousin, of whose existence she had been 


A CARDIN-AL S/JV, 


83 


unaware until this afternoon. The girls had only been 
told that he was their cousin, nothing more — nothing as 
to his claim to the right of turning them out of house and 
home. They saw nothing out of the common in their hav- 
ing a cousin of whom they had never heard, for they knew 
that there were descendants of Robert Bourchier the first 
scattered about the world, and presumed this cousin was 
one of them. 

He played his part very well. He made no glaring er- 
rors at table, and when he began to talk, lost no time in 
saying something about his American education and man- 
ner of life, which served as an excuse for minor solecisms. 
Imitative as a monkey, he knew he should soon pick up 
the little secrets and ways of the new life he was entering 
upon. He had the good sense to talk naturally and unaf- 
fectedly. He told them boldly that his father had made 
his living by hard work in the New World, and' that until 
a very short time ago he had looked forward to as hard- 
working a life as his father’s. This was the only allusion 
he made to his changed prospects, and only his host and 
hostess understood it. Harmless as the words sounded, 
they filled the heart of the one with rage, and that of the 
other with fear. 

‘‘How long has your father been dead?” asked Mrs. 
Bourchier. 

“ A very short time — about three months,” replied 
Digby, with proper feeling. 

“ How did he die ? ” asked the lady, with sympathy in 
her voice. 

“ He met with an accident, from the effects of which he 
never recovered.” 

As he spoke he watched his host’s face, but it bore an 
expression of nothing more than conventional sympathy. 

“ You have no mother?” asked Mrs. Bourchier. 

“ Or sisters ? ” added Josephine, who was finding her 
tongue again. 

“ Neither. I am alone in the world,” answered Digby, 
appealing to his listeners by a gentle sigh. “ Quite alone. 
I believe you are the only relatives I have.” 

So they talked through dinner-time, the ladies deciding 
that they did not dislike their new relative. He was 
polite, and appeared anxious to please Mr. Bourchier. 
He spoke naturally, and without embarrassment, to the 
girls, yet betrayed no familiar presumption on the score of 
kinship. To Mr. Bourchier, when that gentleman did ad- 


84 


A CAIWINAL Sm, 


dress him, he was respectful, as in manner due from a 
young man to an older one of recognized station in the 
world. He commenced so well, that when the ladies left 
the table, and could talk him over between themselves, the 
verdict they passed upon him was far from being unfavor- 
able. 

It was a trying moment for both men when they found 
themselves alone with the wine and dessert. Mr. Bour- 
chier did a host’s duty as far as passing the decanters 
went, but for a while there was silence between them. 
Digby was the first to break it. Success had emboldened 
him. 

“Will you send down for my luggage to-night, or would 
you prefer I should begin my visit to-morrow ? ” 

“ For how long do you purpose honoring us with 3’'our 
society ? ” 

“ Suppose you’ll be going to town soon ?” 

“ In a week or two.” 

“Well, I’ll stay till then, anyway.” 

Mr. Bourchier bowed. 

“ It’s whether you like me to come to-night or to- 
morrow. Please yourself; anight makes little difference.” 

“ You are most considerate. But to me it is a matter of 
indifference, as you insist on coming at all.” 

Digby laughed, and drank a glass of wine. 

“ I’ll stay to-night, then. Will you send a man to the 
inn for my things ?” 

Mr. Bourchier rose, rang the bell, and gave the order 
to the servant. 

“ I say,” remarked the self-invited guest, as his host re- 
turned to his chair, “ I don’t really mean to be too rough 
on you. You’ll find I’m not such a bad sort as you 
think.” 

“Will you take any more wine?” asked Mr. Bourchier, 
restraining a biting piece of sarcasm, suggested by the 
last remark. 

Digby declined, and rose as willing to follow his host. 

“Stop a moment,” said Mr. Bourchier; “you may as 
well let me look at those papers which prove James 
Boucher’s legitimacy.” 

“ With great pleasure,” said Digby, drawing out an ele- 
gant pocket-book, and handing all the certificates to Mr. 
Bourchier — all, except two — the one which certified the 
birth of Frances, and the one which told of the death of 
the infant Digby. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


S5 

Mr. Bourchier glanced over them, and then handed 
them back without a word. Digby’s eyes were full of 
triumph as he replaced them in his pocket. His host rose 
and came close to him. 

“ Listen ! ” he said, in a voice none the less stern be- 
cause it was a whisper ; “you have forced yourself upon 
me. For reasons you know of I am compelled to admit 
you to intercourse with my family. One word of levity 
or of more than ordinary courtesy to my daughters and I 
will kill you and take the consequences — you under- 
stand?” 

“ Oh, yes, I understand.” 

“ And know I mean it ? ” 

“ Of course you mean it — you’d kill me now if you could 
safely.” 

“ I would without a moment’s hesitation. If the chance 
comes I will. Now you are warned ! ” 

Digby laughed. He was not a coward — not by any 
^ means. 

“That’s all fair enough,” he said ; “ I don’t mind that — 
but I’ll take good care you don’t get a chance. Guess 
you’ll be smart if you ever do.” 

Mr. Bourchier said no more. He turned away, and led 
his guest to the drawing-room. Then he explained to his 
wife that Mr. Digby Bourchier would sleep at Redhills 
that night and until further notice. Mrs. Bourchier was 
really glad to hear it. She thanked the young man for 
consenting to stay on such a short invitation, and promised 
to do all she could to make his visit a pleasant one. Ci- 
vility and kindness now might be worth much when the 
compromise was about to be settled — besides, as she did 
not dislike the young fellow, they cost her nothing. 

Mr. Bourchier, who had been so much worried all day 
that he had not looked at his letters, left the drawing-room 
to do so, promising to return in the course of an hour. 
Then Digby drew out his strongest weapon to attack the 
friendly foes that remained. Now that he was an invited 
guest, and likely to stay for an indefinite period, he vent- 
ured upon a more familiar style of conversation — a style 
quite unobjectionable, but more suitable to relatives. He 
manifested great interest in the family history of the Bour- 
chiers — his education on that point, he said, laughingly, 
having been shamefully neglected. His inquiries almost 
won the proud Mabel, who had the history of her ances- 
tors by heart— indeed, it was a wonder she did not inquire 


86 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


from what Bourchier Digby sprang. He listened with be* 
coming reverence, and when the topic was exhausted 
asked for a little music. Mabel played and Josephine 
sang ; their cousin applauded both performances, but not 
too rapturously. Neither of the girls for one moment 
thought of asking if this cousin, who had been brought up 
as a tradesman in America, knew anything of music. It, 
was Mrs. Bourchier who put them on the right track. 

“Perhaps Mr. Digby sings or plays,” she suggested. 

“Do you sing?” asked Josephine, with a little furtive 
smile at the absurdity of such a question. 

“ I sing a little,” he replied. “ I will try if you like.” 

He rose and went to the piano, Josephine making a face 
at Mabel, which spoke of the infliction they were about to 
undergo. 

Yet he seated himself at the piano as if he knew some- 
thing about it. He ran his fingers over the keys as if they 
were no strangers to such things, and then, to the supreme 
astonishment of his audience, his strong baritone voice 
rose and made such melodies as had never before been 
heard in the drawing-room at Redhills — for his singing, if 
not up to the standard of a great artist’s, was miles and 
miles ahead of amateur form. His listeners were en- 
tranced ; again and again they begged him to continue. 
He was only too willing to consent, and, without a note 
before him, he sang the stock songs of every artist. He 
sang majestic sacred songs, stirring patriotic songs, and 
passionate love appeals, and, during the last, ventured to 
look once or twice at Josephine, and, by so doing, made 
her silly, romantic, little heart flutter. Yes, they all, espe- 
cially Josephine, found things getting very pleasant. All 
the ladies were fond of music, and if you, my reader, are 
musical, and have ever heard a truly fine singer, not in the 
concert-hall, but in a drawing-room — if you have noticed 
the transformation which takes place with a man who, per- 
haps, until the moment he gives evidence of his great gift, 
appeared to you plain, dull, and commonplace — you can 
understand the sensation created by Digby’s singing in the 
drawing-room at Redhills. The most ordinary man who 
owned such a voice would appear interesting — how much 
more so, then, when the owner was a tall, handsome young 
fellow, with dark eyes, a pale face, and surrounded by a 
certain amount of mystery ? — a young fellow whose real 
age was twenty-four, but who, for his own reasons, stated 
that he was not twenty-one. It is little wonder that the 


A CARDIN-AL S!JV, 87 

ladies, even Mabel, were carried away by his songs, and 
began to think his society would be a boon to them. 

Mr. Bourchier’s hour with his letters was a very long 
one. Either they were more important than he fancied, 
or he was in no hurry to return to his incubus. It was 
nearly bedtime when he reappeared, and his feelings may 
be imagined when he found the three young people sing- 
ing a trio in a most creditable style, and on unmistakably 
friendly terms with each other. He had to control him- 
sels as best he could while his daughters enlarged upon 
the musical treasure which had fallen among them. He 
could not blame them — he could not forbid them singing 
with the visitor — but he resolved to keep the eye of a lynx 
upon Digby’s relations with his beloved children. 

As they separated for the night, and the two men were 
fain to make the usual polite farewell, he whispered sternly, 
“ Remember.” 

Digby nodded his head jauntily, and went to his room 
humming a snatch of the last love song he had sung. Be- 
fore getting into bed he took the precaution, besides lock- 
ing the door, of placing a couple of chairs in front of it. 
Then he slept, and in the morning woke chuckling at the 
success of his schemes, which made him now a guest be- 
neath his enemy's roof for as long as it suited his purpose 
to remain so. 

Two or three weeks passed, and he was still there. He 
hoped to be able to remain, so he informed Mrs. Bourchier, 
until they went to town in the course of a few days ; as he 
also returned to town shortly, they would, if she would 
allow it, see something of him there. Mrs. Bourchier, 
who had as yet found nothing to mistrust, and little to dis- 
like in his character, gave him a cordial invitation to their 
town-house. She, poor woman, was longing to hear that 
something was going to be sealed and signed respecting 
the renunciation of his claim to Redhills ; but her hus- 
band vouchsafed no information on the subject. Indeed, 
the very mention of the visitor’s name to him seemed to 
produce such unpleasant sensations with Mr. Bourchier, 
that his wife said very little about the matter. She said 
less than she might have done had not the thought once or 
twice crossed her mind that the arrangement might shortly 
be easier to make than it would be now. After all, Digby 
was a fine young fellow, and she had her husband’s asser- 
tion that the estate was really his — what if Mabel or Jo- 
sephine, etc, ? Then she broke off the train of thought, and 


88 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


blamed herself for imagining that either of her beautiful 
girls should stoop to a man so beneath them in education 
and position. 

Digby would have found this country life very dull work 
had it not been for oner thing which occupied him when 
he gould with safety engage in it — that was, making things 
pleasant for Josephine. Close as was the watch Mr. 
Bourchier kept upon him, significant as was the glance he 
threw at him if he saw him exchanging any thing more 
than the barest courtesies with his daughters, he could not 
be always with them. A country gentleman has business 
to attend to, so must sometimes leave his family to its own 
devices. It was fortunate for Digby that he could ride — 
not quite in the fashion of an English gentleman, but well 
enough to feel at home on a horse. As it would have 
been absurd for Mr. Bourchier to forbid his girls riding 
with his own guest, Digby was the daily companion of 
their rides. Sometimes Mr. Bourchier accompanied them, 
sometimes not. In the latter case the young man made 
hay while the sun shone. So different was his manner 
when their father was away that the girls agreed that their 
new cousin stood in terrible awe of Mr. Bourchier. Jo- 
sephine even teased him about it, and could not help notic- 
ing a peculiar smile on his face as he gayly confessed the 
accusation was quite true. His manner to the girls when 
Mr. Bourchier was present was so quiet and void of any 
approach to gallantry that his host’s fears on that head 
were rapidly being lulled to rest ; and as day after day 
passed without the slightest cause for complaint, he felt 
little fear in leaving the cousins together. So they 
rode, walked, and sang together. They made excur- 
sions to objects of interest in the neighborhood ; and 
to one of the party the days passed so pleasantly that her 
foolish little heart began to regret the impending move 
to town. Yet Philip Bourchier suspected nothing ; the 
schemer was too clever to show him a link of the strong- 
est chain of all he was forging, until it was safely round 
him, and riveted in such a way that it would defy all strain. 

There were few other visitors at Redhills during those 
weeks ; save one small dinner party, only the usual" callers. 
Sir Baker and I>ady Ridley, together with two or three 
neighboring landowners, who were accompanied by wives, 
daughters, and a son or two to make the male and female 
elements balance — were the guests at the party. Digby 
wa§ in due form introduced to them all, and was an object 


A CARDIN-AL S/M 


8g 


of great Interest. All properly-educated county people 
know their neighbors’ antecedents, so there was much 
speculation and wonderment among them as to what branch 
of the Bourchiers Digby represented. He was not far off 
from being a success at that dinner. He was in high spirits, 
and after the departure of the ladies, amused the men with 
lively, but not ill-chosen, anecdotes ; and, later on, his sing- 
ing was thought wonderful. Mr. Bourchier seemed in ex- 
tremely bad spirits, which were not improved by Sir 
Baker’s compliments upon the presence of mind he dis- 
played in his recent encounter — for an event of such mag- 
nitude would naturally live long in worthy Westshire 
minds. All the while he answered as shortly as he could 
Sir Baker’s questions he felt that there was a mocking light 
in Digby’s eyes. Yet he could not help feeling a little 
gratitude when he cleverly changed the subject, and made 
Sir Baker’s portly frame shake with an anecdote of Ameri- 
can character. It must have been very pleasant to Mr. 
Bourchier that each of the gentlemen took the opportunity 
at some period of the evening of assuring him that his 
cousin was a fine young fellow. 

The ladies also were all on his side. Indeed, kind old 
Lady Ridle.y, who may have intercepted a glance which 
passed between the two young people when Mr. Bour- 
chier’s back was turned, tapped Josephine on the cheek 
and whispered : 

“ First cousins, my dear. It won’t do, you know.” 
Thereupon the silly girl blushed as red as a poppy ; and 
Digby, who guessed the meaning of that blush, trembled 
lest Mr. Bourchier should detect it and ask the cause. 

It was about a fortnight after his installation at Redhills 
that one of those rare chances of spending a little time 
alone with Josephine occurred. Mr. Bourchier was away 
on magisterial business, Mabel had gone to her room with 
a headache, Mrs. Bourchier and her youngest daughter 
were in the morning-room trifling away time. Digby 
entered, looking very handsome and happy. 

“ No chance of a ride this morning, I suppose ? ” he said. 

“ No,” answered Josephine, “ Mabel has a headache.” 

He expressed proper sympathy for the sufferer, then 
turning to Josephine — 

“ Shall we walk through the gardens and look at the 
greenhouses ? It’s too fine to stay indoors.” 

'She looked up and saw his entreating eyes. What deep, 
beautiful eyes they seemed to her. 


90 


A CARDimZ sm. 


“ May I go, mamma ? Do you want me for anything ? ^ 

“No. Go if you like, my dear.” 

Mrs. Bourchier could see no objection to the cousins tak- 
ing a stroll together. She did not see the look of triumph 
in Digby’s eyes as he closed the door behind Josephine, 
who went to fetch her hat. 

“ Will Mr. Bourchier return soon ? ” asked Digby, care- 
lessly. It was but natural he should inquire as to the 
whereabouts of his host. 

“ I am afraid he cannot possibly be back for a couple of 
hours.” 

^ “ Awful work, I should call it, to be boxed up on such a 
day as this, sentencing poachers and vagrants.” 

“There are unpleasant duties in every position of life." 

“ I would’t do them. I only ask for liberty and a few 
hupdreds a year. I should be quite contented with that." 

This last sentence fell very pleasantly on the lady’s ear ; 
moreover, not the words, alone, but the accent with which 
they were spoken. It told her that the sword would fall 
very lightly ; that the wielder was kindly disposed, and 
would only let it inflict a small flesh-wound, which need 
not be felt. She could not help giving him a look of grati- 
tude, and with great complacency w'atched him accompany 
Josephine across the garden. She had seen nothing as yet 
to call for interference, and was half resolved, in spite of 
her husband’s evident dislike to the young man, to leave 
matters to shape themselves. 

So Josephine Bourchier and the self-christened Digby 
Bourchier walked together that soft spring morning across 
the close-cut lawn, past the pride of the place, the mag- 
nificent cedar, past the fish-pond and the old sun-dial, on 
and on until they reached the lower range of glass-houses. 
The girl looked up shyly at her companion, who said little 
for a while. Josephine, somehow, lately had felt very timid 
and restrained while in company with him. She was think- 
ing how brave and tall he looked — how beautiful the world 
looked altogether — how sweetly the birds sung — but she 
little thought to what a fate that fair pathway she was 
treading would lead her. 

They walked through hot-houses, greenhouses, orchid- 
houses, and vineries ; lingering now and then to admire a 
flower — their fingers at times just touching as they raised, 
in order to see it better, some bloom more choice than its 
fellows. Then they entered the orchard-house, which was 
filled with a pink cloud of peach and other blossoms. The 


A CA/?DINAL SIM 


trees were trained longways and crossways, and formed 
screens of flowers which hid nearly everything from the 
outside world. They sat down on the raised broad stone 
edge of the bed and began to talk. Of all subjects in the 
world Digby chose family history. 

Both Josephine and her sister were entirely ignorant as 
to the young man’s true or asserted position. He was now 
going to experience the pleasure of informing his listener 
as to whom he represented. As a preliminary he took her 
hand. She did not withdraw it — they were cousins. 

“ Josephine,” he said, “ I want to talk to you — to tell you 
something about myself.” 

Her thoughts flew far ahead of his words — he was going 
to confess to some romantic piece of wickedness — some- 
thing he deeply repented of now — something which had 
cast a temporary cloud over his life — most of Josephine’s 
heroes had clouds over their lives ; clouds which began to 
lift about the middle of the third volume, and disappeared 
entirely at the end of it. 

“ Do you know why I came here, Finey ?” he said, boldly 
venturing to use her pet name. 

“ To see your cousins, I suppose,” she answered, laugh- 
ing. 

“No, I came down here to turn you all out of your home 
— to claim your father’s estates, and beggar you all ; but I 
am not going to do it nmv, Finey.” 

No word was ever spoken which expressed more than 
that word “ now.” But the girl was too much astonished 
by his assertion to give it the notice it deserved. 

“What do you mean ?” she cried. “Turn us out — the 
Bourchiers of Redhills ! ” 

Then he told her all about himself — all about the orig- 
inal Digby Bourchier branch — all about the lawsuits, of 
which she had some knowledge already. He made a most 
affecting history of the affair— far more affecting than the* 
true facts of the case. He had got the whole thing up 
perfectly, and embellished it as his imagination suggested. 
It was quite a romance, of which he was the hero — a ro- 
mance which lost nothing from his impressive way of nar- 
rating it, and when he had finished by telling her how his 
heart smote him when he saw the happiness of the house 
he was about to destroy — how he struggled with himself, 
and finally determined to renounce his birthright — willing 
to claim only sufficient to support him as a gentleman — 
only insisting that his legitimacy be recognized, the girl 


A CARDIN-AL SM 


was murmuring through her tears, “ noble — good and 
noble,” and thought the man who stood before her was 
the greatest and most self-sacrificing hero the world had 
ever been honored by beholding. Poor little Finey ! 

“And papa knew it all the time ! ” she said ; “and that 
is why he is always so cold and distant to you ! ” 

Then her fingers closed with an admiring and consoling 
pressure round those of her noble cousin’s. Her hero 
was found. 

“Yes,” said Digby, kindly and considerately; “but I 
don’t blame him. He could scarcely be cordial to a man 
he thought his enemy — as, indeed, I was at one time — not 
now, Finey.” 

Again that powerful “now.” 

“ Do you know — can you guess why I gave this up ? ” 
he asked, drawing very near to her. 

If she could guess, she would not. She blushed and 
trembled. 

“It was for love of you, my darling. You have saved 
your father, mother, brothers — every one. Kiss me, 
Josephine, and tell me you love me !” 

He clasped her to his heart, and kissed her passionately 
; — for he really loved the girl, or thought he did. She was 
very pretty, and throwing himself completely into his 
part, he felt he was making great sacrifices for her sake. 

Is it any wonder she believed him ? Any wonder she 
laid her head on his shoulder — gave him the kiss he asked 
her for — told him she thought she had loved him from the 
moment they met, and felt supremely happy at having 
won such a noble heart? She had* a right to be happy, 
for few girls can marry the men they love, and by so doing 
confer such inestimable benefits on their families. 

And a man capable of such an act of self-abnegation 
•must be right in what he asks. So she promised to be 
guided by him in everything — for the present to keep 
their love a secret even from her own sister Mabel — even 
from her mother. She promised to be happy if he con- 
tinued to behave in her father’s presence toward her with 
the same cold politeness he had hitherto shown. She 
promised to love him forever and ever — was he not her 
hero ? Then, as the tipie for Mr. Bourchier’s return drew 
near, the adventurer led her back to the house, the happi- 
est girl in England. 

The rascal was young, and every young man, however 
bad, must have tender feelings toward a pretty girl whose 

• ^ 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


93 


heart he has just won — although he has won it under false 
pretences. So there was a tenderness mingled with his 
self-congratulation as he retired to rest that night and 
thought over the events of the day. 

“ Hang it,” he said, ‘‘she’s a dear little girl. I don’t see 
why we shouldn’t be happy for evermore with one another 
— I am awfully fond of her. I guess when it’s all over I 
shall have rooted myself rather firmly in this establish- 
ment.” 

But he took the precaution of putting more articles of 
furniture than usual behind his door. It was well to guard 
against the chance of Mr. Bourchier having learned the 
event of the day and going Berserk, utterly disregardless of 
consequences. But nothing of consequence transpired for 
the next few days. Then the townward migration took 
place. The visitor left a day before the family, promising 
to pay his respects very soon in London. Mr. Bourchier 
with hearty good -will speeded the parting guest. 

How do they do it, these handsome scamps ? How do 
they persuade a girl against her better nature to take a 
step she knows to be wrong? To meet clandestinely, to 
correspond through hidden channels, and at last to consent 
to a secret marriage ? We do not know how — we are re- 
spectable people, fathers of families, it may be, who have 
been married to our partners in the orthodox way, with 
bridesmaids, groomsmen, favors, and cakes. We know 
nothing of the manner in which such a thing is brought 
about ; we only know that occasionally it does happen. 
That a girl, at the bidding of some scamp, will leave her 
home, her father and mother, her friends who have loved 
her since childhood, and trust her future, without a saving 
clause, to the mercy of the man she loves. It is strange, 
but it is so. 

Perhaps there was some excuse for Josephine. She 
was romantic ; she was going to marry a hero ; she was a 
willing sacrifice to the welfare of her family. The mo- 
ment the ring was on her finger concealment was to be at 
an end— and, more than all, Digby wished it. She may 
have sighed in secret for the orange-blossoms, trousseau, 
and other bridal accessories, but Digby was resolved on a 
private marriage. As soon as the rite was performed, the 
news may be proclaimed. Indeed, ttfey would go down 
to her father’s house, Redhills, and spend the honeymoon. 
They would have nothing to be ashamed of. 

So^ with these arguments, she stilled her coxiscience j 


94 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


and one fine day, toward the end of May, Mrs. Boiirchier 
came into her husband’s presence with trepidation in her 
look and an open letter in her hand. 

“ I am very busy, Adelaide," said Mr. Bourchier, testily. 

She handed him the letter without a word. It was from 
Josephine. A half-penitent, half-triumphant letter. She 
had married Digby that morning. They had gone down 
to Redhills to stay for a while. She was sorry for the con- 
cealment, but Digby had told her everything ; and when 
her papa and mamma knew how nobly and generously he 
was prepared to behave in the matter^ she felt sure they 
would freely forgive both her husband and herself. 

Philip Bourchier read it from beginning to end ; his 
wife waiting anxiously to hear what he would say, but not 
without an idea that matters had shaped themselves to the 
best end. Then her husband laid down the letter, gazed 
at her with a look on his face which froze her blood, ut- 
tered some five words — a curse which made the woman 
shiver like an aspen — threw out his arms, and fell sense- 
less across his study-table, with a thin stream of blood 
trickling from his nostrils. 

Truly, his punishment had begun ! 


CHAPTER IX. 

MDLLE. FRANCESCA. 

It is still spring ; but the spring of the third year after 
that which witnessed the events last recorded. We are 
still surrounded by green ; but not the green of the mead- 
ows. It is a tossing, tumbling, changing green ; darting 
about in those short chopping hillocks of water, w'hich 
make the English Channel such a terror to travellers. The 
Newhaven boat has just steamed out of Dieppe harbor, 
and the passengers are preparing to enjoy the trip — to pre- 
tend to enjoy it, or to endure it as best they can, accord- 
ing to the disposition of each, or the power possessed of 
withstanding old Neptune’s rough gambols — for the wind 
is blowing merrily, and, although there is not a great sea 
on, there is enough to make the experienced steward and 
stewardess feel sure that there will be many calls for those 
painfully suggestive white objects which it is their duty to 
distribute as needed 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


95 


Tlie boats in this particular service are not the largest 
in the world. I am told that Dieppe harbor will not allow 
a very large steamer to enter ; and if harbors are made for 
boats, boats in return must be made for harbors. Never- 
theless, in spite of the long voyage, it is astonishing how 
many people prefer this route to the shorter passage from 
Calais to Dover. The railway journey from Paris is much 
shorter, and while standing on dry land we are unanimous 
in asserting how much we prefer the steamboat to the 
stuffy little French railway carriages; but unless we are 
good sailors, before we are half-way across we repent the 
decision, and wish we could see the white cliffs, like we 
see them after starting from Calais, almost at hand. 

It is too late now — we must go through it — seven, eight, 
nine hours, or whatever the time may be. The boat is 
tossed up and down, the waves are dancing at her sides, 
and, as soon as they can, obliterating the line of alien foam 
left in our wake. Every now and then an aspiring wave, 
bolder and more fully grown than its brethren, manages to 
fulfil its desire of dashing itself into a little cloud of spray 
higher than the vessel’s bows, and occasionally succeeds 
in getting partially on board, christening the forward pas- 
sengers, and dying away in almost imperceptible salty 
particles somewhere about the waist of the ship. It is 
what would be called a fine sailing day — a day when the 
pilot-boats take in their jibs, and spin along under fore- 
sail and reefed mainsail, each of which is wet some two or 
three feet up. 

There were many passengers on the boat this particular 
day — all sorts and conditions of men and women — in all de- 
grees of comfort and discomfort. Passengers who were 
perfectly at their ease — passengers who tried to appear so, 
passengers who knew what was inevitable, yet struggled 
against it, and passengers who succumbed at once, and, 
could they afford the extra charge, buried their woes in 
the tiny, cramped deck cabins. As we are only concerned 
about two of the number, we need take no further notice 
of any save these. 

The first was a tall young man with Englishman written 
plainly upon him, but not in such large letters as to be ag- 
gressive. His age about twenty-four, his eyes blue, feat- 
ures good, hair light brown, complexion clear and healthy, 
good strong chin, broad shoulders, well-formed, but ca- 
pable hands and feet. Indeed, an excellent specimen of 
that peculiar race produced by the blending of ancient 


96 


A CARDmAL sm. 


Briton, Saxon, Dane, Norman, and who knows what other 
nations. He was covered from neck to feet by a thick 
ulster, and wore a close-fitting travelling cap. In spite of 
the wind he was struggling to smoke a cigar, and in spite 
of the sea walked up and down the quarter-deck. 

The second passenger was a lady — a young lady, with a 
face and form which would wake longings in an artist’s or 
sculptor’s heart — longings insatiable until his art had cop- 
ied them on canvas or in marble. She was quietly but 
richly dressed, and, young and full of health as she looked, 
apparently found it needful to take great care of her 
throat and chest. She sat on one of the skylight seats in 
the centre of the ship, and to all appearances enjoyed the 
tossing of the sea and the fresh keen wind. Now and 
again she rose, walked to the side, looked out over the 
dancing waves, and throwing back her broad shoulders, 
seemed literally to revel in breathing the sea air. A 
woollen rug lay on the seat beside her, but she did not use 
it. Indeed, she seemed a being far above woollen rugs. 
Young as she looked, she had the stateliness of a queen 
and the composure of a middle-aged woman. 

A man, unless he has very serious matters on his mind, 
cannot walk up and down in front of an attractive girl, 
passing close to her every fifteen seconds, without noticing 
lier, or without the girl becoming aware of his presence. 
The young Englishman soon realized that his travelling 
companion was exceedingly beautiful, but, being a gentle- 
man as well as an Englishman, did not stare her in the 
face, or sit down beside her and attempt to commence a 
conversation. No doubt, some wish as to a suitable. chance 
occurring which might lead to the last named crossed his 
mind, and he also felt curious to know who or what she 
might be. She seemed to be quite alone ; for a long time 
no one came near her. Sea-sickness had no more terrors 
for her than for him ; it was clear that she thoroughly en- 
joyed the tossing and the blowing. Young ladies of this 
description are so rare that men admire them beyond meas- 
ure when they meet them on board ship. A woman who 
can take a voyage without being a nuisance or object of 
deep pity to her male friend, is certainly entitled to respect. 

“ I expect her people are all ill below,” said the young 
man to himself. “ Such a creature as that can’t be travel- 
ling alone — it wouldn’t be allowed. Yet it might ; she 
could go from St. Petersburg to Paris without being in- 
sulted.” 


A C A 7^ DUVAL SUV. 


91 


But she was not quite alone. By and by another wo- 
man, a lady's maid probably, came to her. She was utterly 
undone by the sea; she looked as limp as an old kid glove 
— her face was almost the color of the waters; but she had 
a noble disposition, and between her paroxysms had strug- 
gled to reach her mistress, and inquire if she could be of 
any service. She spoke in French, and her mistress replied 
in the same tongue, with an amused, but kindly laugh. 

“ Service, my poor girl — no. Go and lie down again, 
and try to be as comfortable as is possible. The voyage 
won’t last forever.” 

The young man was close by as she spoke, and he could 
hot help the twinkle of merriment in his eyes as he looked 
at the poor, wretched, dishevelled maid, with the' resolution 
of a martyr, proffering her assistance to her young mistress. 

The girl caught his eye — the absurdity of the situation 
must have struck her also. She turned her head away to 
conceal the smile which made her face look more attrac- 
tive than ever. 

The young man was growing more and more interested. 
He was beginning to argue with himself, and carry con- 
viction by his argument, that it would be but the act of a 
gentleman to ask her if he could do anything toward her 
comfort. But she was so happy and contented that his 
special pleading was futile. He was longing for a chance 
of addressing, with propriety, the fair girl who sat within 
a few feet of his limited walk. The chance did come, but 
the manner of it was not too dignified. 

A bigger wave than usual caught the boat — caught it 
full and fair, and the lurch which follow^ed the boisterous 
attack caused the tall young man to lose his footing — lose 
it just opposite the girl. He fell down on the seat close to 
her ; indeed, it was by great exertion that he avoided fall- 
ing plump into her lap ; he did save himself from that in- 
dignity, but only just. Gathering himself up, he apolo- 
gized for his awkwardness. She bowed forgivingly. He 
then raised his hat and resumed his walk, regretting he 
had not presence of mind enough to take advantage of the 
chance which had literally almost thrown them into each 
other’s arms. 

As he fell his cigar was in his hand ; he clung to it like 
the proverbial straw, but the lighted end was crushed and 
extinguished. It was not worth re-illumining, so he threw 
it to the fishes. 

A few more turns up and down, and a strong smell of 
7 


98 


A CARDI^/AL Sm, 


something burning was manifest — so strong that he looked 
for the cause of it, and soon saw that the woollen rug which 
was lying to the leeward of the girl was in a slow but sure 
state of combustion. Horror-stricken at the enormity of 
his crime, he seized it and stamped on the smouldering fire ; 
then turned to make a second apology — a task which was 
made very easy by the look of amusement on the girl’s 
face. Then, his excuses being accepted — he ventured to 
say a few words more, and at last he begged to be allowed 
to sit down ; and in ten minutes the two were in full con- 
versation. He was delighted to find that she was not 
French. He was afraid she was, having heard her address 
her stricken maid in that language. He knew the tongue 
fairly well, but naturally he preferred his own. After talk- 
ing a short time about the passage, the steamer, the sea, 
and the wind, he told her how he had almost resolved to 
try and apologize for his fault in French, and how pleased 
he was to find she was English. 

“ But I am not English,” she said. 

“Not English ! you must be.” 

“No, I am an American.” 

“That’s all the same. We are one great family. Your 
ancestors were English.” 

“ Oh, yes ; my father was English.” 

“ Then we claim you, of course.” 

“ I shall not resist the claim ; I think I shall like Eng- 
land.” 

“ But surely you know it ? ” 

“ I have been in London a few months in the course of 
my life ; but I know nothing of the country, nothing out- 
side that one city. I am longing to see English fields and 
country faces.” 

“ Ah, you must go to Westshire for the best of both.” 

“ Westshire ; you live- there, 1 suppose, as you recom- 
mend it.” 

“ It is my home ; or my father’s house is there, although 
I am often away from it.” 

“ You have a father ? ” said the girl, with a touch of envy 
in her voice, “and a mother and sisters, perhaps?” 

“Yes, I have all, and a brother.” 

“You are happy ; but I dare say you don’t know your 
own happiness. You must be all alone in the world to 
realize what they are to you.” 

“Yes, but remember, when you have relatives you love, 
you have other people’s troubles to bear,” 


A CARDIArAL S/M 


9r 


“ Bear them, and think yourself fortunate to have those 
who will help you in return.” She spoke earnestly. Some- 
how she was quite at her ease with her companion. He 
talked sensibly, and ventured to pay no compliments. She 
was such a self-possessed woman that she fancied lierself 
older than her companion, and spoke to him with author- 
ity. 

“ There is no happier lot I can imagine,” she continued, 
with her eyes fixed on the sea, and speaking as if she 
thought aloud, “ than that of being one of a large family, 
where the fortune or misfortune of one is that of all.” 

“Your ideal is correct ; but reality never comes up to it. 
There is always the disturbing element of marriages to be 
considered. Outsiders enter the magic circle, and work 
grief and trouble — old landmarks are removed, old love 
effaced.” 

“ I scarcely understand you.” 

“Well, as Ave are strangers, I may speak more plainly. 
Three years ago, my sister, the pet of the house, married 
in secret a man she had only known a few weeks — a fellow 
I had never even seen.” 

“Is he poor or unworthy of her ? ” 

“ Both. Poverty would not have mattered so much. 
We are rich, and my father could have provided for them. 
The man is a scamp — a clever, handsome scamp. He won 
her, and in a year grew tired of her.” 

“ Then she wants your love and sympathy the more.” 

“She has it, but it does her little good. Like a woman, 
even now, after he has treated her shamefully, she stays 
with him. I dare say if he died she would weep and wail. 
Rogue as we know him to be, she must love him more 
than she loves either brother or sister, father or mother, or 
else she would leave him. How do you account for that ? ” 

“ Easily,” said the girl, with a grave smile ; “ is she not a 
woman ? ” 

“ My father nearly died when he heard of the marriage 
— he has never been the same man since ; but why should 
I trouble you with my troubles ? Yours must be a most 
sympathetic nature to have led me to speak of them.” 

She smiled. It was a compliment, but a compliment 
she willingly accepted. 

“ Have you travelled far ? ” he asked, turning the sub- 
ject. 

“ From Milan. I stayed a day or two in Paris.” 

“And all alone?” 


200 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


“ Yes ; all alone. Don’t be shocked — I am used to being 
thrown on my own resources. My friend, lawyer, guardian 
■ — I scarcely know what to call him — intended to meet me 
at Paris, but important matters prevented liim.” 

He was growing very curious as to his companion’s 
station in life. 

“ Do you live in London ? ” he could not help asking. 

“I have no home in England, I told you ; but I suppose 
I shall be obliged to live in London the greater part of my 
time.” 

He would have given much to have brought himself to 
the impertinence of asking her name, but he could — he 
dared not. He could only declare to himself that she was 
the fairest woman he had ever seen, and frame some absurd 
wish that the steamer might break down and prolong the 
journey indefinitely — even finishing it by being wrecked 
somewhere, that he might have an opportunity of saving 
her life, or of being of some service to her. It was a nat- 
ural wish, but, considering the other passengers, a selfish 
one. 

The passage, although above the average duration, 
seemed unusually short to him. At Newhaven he did 
what he could to be of use to her ; but her requirements 
were very modest. She had a great deal of luggage, which 
was, of course, in the hold ; he could carry her cloak and 
hand-bag ashore, and give a Samaritan’s aid to her wretched 
maid — that was all. Then he saw her greet a middle-aged 
gentleman who awaited her arrival ; he saw them enter 
the train togetlier, but was not ill-bred enough to choose 
the same carriage. When they reached London he looked 
for them, but did not happen to see them. So he went 
away disconsolately, wondering if fate would ever bring 
them face to face again, and, it need hardly be said, pray- 
ing fate to be kind and obliging in the matter. 

He had learned a little more about her before they 
parted ; just enough to puzzle him more than ever. As 
the boat neared Newliaven he could not help feeling sorry 
and somewhat sentimental. They had been talking in 
such good fellowship, so naturally and unconstrainedly, 
that she seemed an old friend, not the acquaintance of a 
few hours’ standing. 

“ It is very strange,” he said — “almost sad, I call it, to 
think that when the boat touches that quay-wall we go 
our different ways ; very likely never to meet or see each 
other again.” 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


loi 

She laughed quietly. “ I should be very sorry to think 
so.” The words might have sounded very pleasant to a 
young man’s vanity, had not the accent shown they were 
meant to bear quite a matter-of-fact construction. 

“ I am vain enough to hope,” she continued, “that you 
will often see and bear me.” 

He was greatly mystified. I scarcely understand what 
you mean,” he said. “ Do you know me or any friends of 
mine ?” He had mentioned the names of several persons 
during the voyage. 

She shook her head. 

“ I don’t know half a dozen people in England.” 

“Yet we shall meet ? ” 

“ I did not say meet. I said you might see me.” 

‘ He began to wonder whether he was talking to a prin- 
cess — the future bride of one of the royal princes — whom 
he might see in public and at a distance. However, she 
did not enlighten him as to the meaning of her words, and 
shortly afterward they parted as described. 

He drove to his hotel, staid the night in town, and the 
next day' went down to Redhills ; for his name was, Allan 
Bourchier, and he was the eldest son of Philip Tremaine 
Bourchier. 

For days and days the recollection of that beautiful face 
haunted him. He blamed his incapacity and want of ad- 
dress in not in some way ascertaining who she was, or at 
least the name she bore ; for, in spite of her mysterious 
words, he feared that years might pass before chance 
brought him again in contact with her. Strange to say, 
the impression she had made upon him did not wear away ; 
indeed, the true reason why, in the course of a fortnight, 
he left Redhills and returned to town, was the unspoken 
hope of encountering her again. 

And the girl, on her side, as she was conducted by the 
middle-aged gentleman to the carriage, almost regretted 
she had not asked her companion’s name. He had been 
kind, attentive and considerate — he was a gentleman — he 
had talked to her sensibly, and made no absurd advances ; 
and, above all, he was the first Englishman she had spoken 
to on his native soil, as it were, for some three years, and 
he was very handsome. Such an agreeable contrast to 
the dark-eyed, olive-coinplexioned people she had been 
surrounded by for so long. She would have asked his 
name had it not been for the family secrets he had dis- 
closed to her which forbade such an indiscretion.. 


103 


A CARDINAL SIN 


Well, they might meet again or they might not ; she had 
far more important things to tliink about. In a few weeks’ 
time she was to make her attempt to rank high in the 
world of song. She was to stand before a critical audience 
and find out if success or failure was to be her portion — 
if her three years’ hard work at her art had been wasted — 
if the power of her voice was as great as judges, many of 
them severe judges, averred. But until the ordeal she 
was going to stay with her friends the Trenfields at their 
pretty villa on the Thames. Both Mr. and Mrs. Trenfield 
had insisted upon it being her liome, at least for the pres- 
ent ; and Frances Boucher, glad to think she had some 
friends in England, readily accepted the invitation. 

She was cordially welcomed. The Trenfields — father, 
mother, and children — had, during the short time she had 
been with them previously, learned to love her and to look 
upon her as one of themselves. They had not seen her 
during her absence from England ; although a visit to 
Milan had been promised every year, something had al- 
ways prevented it. They were stay-at-home people— -not 
of the modern travelling school. After the first greeting, 
and after Frances’ unlucky maid had been sent to her 
room to sleep off the effects of the journey, and recover at 
leisure her national vivacity Mrs. Trenfield drew her guest 
under the lamp, for by this time it was dark. 

Now, my dear,” she said, “ let me look at you, and sec 
what three years have done for you.” 

Frances threw off her mantle and stood as requested. 
She had no reason to fear the inspection, even had less 
friendly eyes been making it. 

What had the three years done for her ? Changed her ? 
No. Girls of her type change little ; she was a woman at 
nineteen, and can be only a woman at twenty-two. Yet 
the three years have perfected every charm — they have 
given her even a more graceful and queen-like carriage ; 
they have given her confidence ; have taught her to meet 
the eyes of men and women fearlessly ; to know that she 
can hold her own with the best of them. The soft Italian 
air has not been prejudicial to her health — she is straight, 
large-limbed, and strong ; the picture of what the mothers 
of a fine race of men should be. As far as appearance, 
disposition, and constitution go, she has every element 
needful for success in a public career. So Mr. and Mrs. 
Trenfield looked at her with honest admiration, their 
daughters with pride at having such a splendid friend, and 


A CARDINAL SIN 


103 


their son, a young fellow with shadowy whiskers, and an 
affection for the classics, was so whirled from his meta- 
phorical feet that he could only keep on misquoting to 
himself some line about “Great Here’s eyes.” 

Yet there was nothing severe about her beauty — nothing 
cold in her manner. She was above everything a true- 
hearted loving woman, with weaknesses enough to win 
the love of lier own sex. She was at home in a mo- 
ment with every one. Tired by her journey — lie down — 
not a bit of it — she wanted to change her dress, bathe her 
face — and, yes, she did want her dinner. In half an hour 
she was at the table wdth iier friends, as fresh and bloom- 
ing as when slie left Dieppe at early morning. 

She had been regular in corresponding with them all, 
so they knew all about her life in -Milan. She talked of 
the journey and how w'ell she had managed alone. The 
two daughters looked at her with increasing reverence as 
they thought of her courage in coming all that distance 
without protection. Mr. Trenfield apologized again for 
his inability to have kept his promise, and Charlie, his 
son, sighed and wished he had been sent as a substitute. 
Such a chance, he thought sadly, comes to a man but once 
in a lifetime. 

“ Then you staid in Paris some time ? ” asked Mr. Tren- 
field. 

“Yes ; ten days. I had business there.” 

“Where did you stay?” asked the elderdaughter, think- 
ing a girl who staid alone in Paris was brave beyond her 
sex. 

“At a nice, quiet, dull boarding-house. Nearly all the 
guests were old ladies and gentlemen. They were all very 
kind to me.” 

Of course they were, thought Charlie. 

“Now, may I ask,” said Mr. Trenfield, “what possible 
business you could have in Paris ? Till you dismiss me I 
am your legal adviser, and have a right to know.” 

“ I spent heaps and heaps of money — that’s all I mean 
to tell you.” 

“ Boarding-house charges so high, then ? ” 

“ You stupid man ! ” said his wife, “ can’t you guess her 
business?” 

“Not a bit ; but I hope it went off satisfactorily.” 

“ Perfectly,” said Frances. “ Oh, they are such beauties ! 
There is one too lovely to wear.” 

The ladies quite fluttered as she made this announcement. 


104 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


“When shall we see them ? Are they here ?” asked one 
of the daughters. 

“ They will come with my luggage. I dare say it has 
come now. We will look at them all to-morrow, and try 
them on.” 

Women know with what pleasure to-morrow was looked 
for. 

“Oh, I see,” said Trenfield ; “dresses, eh?” 

“No, sir, masterpieces — poems — works of art.” 

“Well, you are young, and of course could not resist 
the temptation ; that’s where the money went, was it ? 
Cost a lot, I suppose ?” 

Frances laughed, drew out her purse, and shook two or 
three sovereigns on the cloth. 

“See,” she said, “all the money I have left, and you 
know what you sent me.” 

“ Phew ! you are an extravagant young lady ; you will 
corrupt my wife and daughters.” 

“ No, I am a gambler putting down a heavy stake ; or I 
am a woman of business investing capital. What I shall 
do with the things if I fail, I don’t know. Mrs. Trenfield 
must buy them at a great reduction.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Trenfield, “but I wouldn’t fail if I were 
you ; if you do you will have enough to live on. Now 
there will be no difficulty in claiming your father’s money ; 
we will see about it at once. ’ 

Frances’ face grew sad. Her father’s mysterious death 
was the great trouble of her life. She had never wavered 
in her resolution to find George Manders and force him 
to speak. She knew Trenfield had heard no news of him, 
or he would have told her, but she felt sure they must 
meet some day. 

The ladies went to the drawing-room, where Mr. Tren- 
field promised to join them after one small cigar, as the 
hour was getting very late. 

Young Trenfield fidgeted about for a few minutes, then 
told his father, if he would excuse him, he would follow 
the ladies. Mr. Trenfield looked at him with a kind but a 
meaning smile on his face. 

“ I say, Charlie, my son, take an old man’s advice. Don’t 
you fall in love with Miss Boucher.” 

Charlie blushed, and hung his head in boyish confusion, 
marvelling how the parental eye had read his thoughts so 
clearly. 

“ She is a good and a beautiful girl, and you are a very 


A CARDINAL SIN 


105 

decent boy — I am proud of you ; but try and remember 
that the probabilities are that in a few months she will 
liave all society at her feet — that her name will be known 
all through England — so think what chance you have, and 
don’t fall in love with her.” 

“I won’t, if I can help it,” said Charlie, almost 
piteously. 

“You must help it. If I see symptoms developing I’ll 
keep you at the office till nine o’clock every night over 
leases, conveyances, and briefs, and send you home so 
tired you’ll only be fit to creep up to bed. Now, you’re 
warned, go if you like.” 

He went, and found himself rather out of place, as his 
sisters were anticipating the delights of to-morrow by 
hearing a description of them. Don’t accuse Frances and 
her friends of frivolity; rather accuse me of writing of 
women as I find them, even the cleverest and best. Think 
what the advent of several dresses direct from a great 
Parisian milliner means to a house where ladies are in 
the majority. 

But their conversation was soon interrupted by an ener- 
getic ring and a flourishing knock at the front door. Mrs. 
Trenfield looked aghast. Visitors at this hour ! Who 
could it be ? 

Who but the amiable Teuton, Herr Kaulitz — with ex- 
citement in every feature, such excitement that his very 
spectacles seemed to have caught it and to beam more 
brightly than usual. He entered, passing the servant as 
she announced him. Yet, excited or quiet, he was a gen- 
tleman, so his first words were words of apology to Mrs. 
Trenfield. 

“ Ach ! dear lady, forgif me,” he cried, taking her hand. 
“ I could not help it — I knew Miss Bouzher comes to- 
night back. You must forgif me. Sleep would not come 
until I zee her.” 

Then, his duty done, he rushed over to Frances and 
shook her by both hands in a most energetic fashion. 
She was unfeignedly glad to see him — every welcome to 
England was pleasing to her. So she made him sit beside 
her, and tell her how he had been getting on ; how the 
public had been appreciating the compositions he had 
deigned to bestow upon it ; praised and thanked him for 
several he had sent her at various times — in a word, was 
kind, friendly, and gracious to him. Yet, after a few min- 
utes he began to appear ill at ease ; he moved about in his 


xo6 


A CARDINAL SIN 


chair, wiped and re-wiped his spectacles, and, according to 
liis liabit, disarranged his hair again and again. He cast 
furtive and longing glances toward the side of the room. 
He was as nervous as a lover about to ask his mistress the 
important question. So utterly uncomfortable he seemed 
that Mrs. Trenfield and her daughters, who were prosaic 
people in their way, glanced at each other, signifying their 
fear lest the little man was preparing for a fit of some 
kind. Even Frances looked at him inquiringly. He col- 
ored as he met her eyes. 

“ Ah, that I migiit dare,” he whispered. “ But, no, after 
such a voyage it would not be fit.” 

Dare what, ray old friend ?” asked Frances. 

“I haf heard it from many — from ail. I haf written to 
this one and he says ‘ Vonderful! grand !’ and this one 
and this one they all zay the same. But I am Didymus — -I 
long to hear for myself. But no, it is too late ! ” 

There was such a world of self-denial in the last sentence 
that Frances laughed aloud. “You want to hear me sing 
’ — is that it ?” 

“ Ah, no — it would be gruel to-night.” 

“I should think so,” said Mrs. Trenfield. “Frances 
must be quite worn out. Go away, Herr Kaulitz— you 
may come again to-morrow.” 

“ Yes, I vill go — I vill gome to-morrow,” he said, rising 
and feeling like a martyr— “ Goot-night.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Frances, “ I am not a bit tired. Come 
to the piano and play an accompaniment.” 

The little man obeyed her with a rapturous face. “You 
are an angel — you are too goot — but oh ! I do so long to 
hear you ! ” 

He sat down to the piano and ran his fingers along the 
keys. “Ah,” he said, turning to Mrs. Trenfield, “you have 
had him tuned — goot!” Then without another word he 
struck a few opening notes of the Jewel Song from Faust^ 
and looked at Frances. She nodded. 

Herr Kaulitz was one of the finest accompanists in the 
world. Perhaps the least said about his original compo- 
sitions the better ; but he could teach singing and could 
accompany a singer superbly. He neither followed nor 
led— he accompanied. He had a knack, when it was pos- 
sible, of looking at the singer’s face and watching her lips ; 
and as he gazed at the present singer, as he saw her throw 
open her grand chest and heard her voice rise in a rich- 
aess and power wJiich even he, great believer as he was in 


A CARDINAL SIN 


107 


her gifts, scarcely dreamed it would reach to, his emotion 
almost overcame him, and for a moment he feared he must 
cease performing his minor part. But he finished fault- 
lessly as he began ; and when the wonderful music ceased, 
and the room seemed empty and colorless without it, he 
sprung from the music-stool and literally embraced the 
girl, absolutely kissing her on both her cheeks. Startling 
as his action was, slie was not offended ; she understood 
what he meant — knew that he had been carried almost 
out of his senses, and far beyond proprieties, by his admi- 
ration for her singing; and knew that had she been the 
ugliest woman in the world he would have saluted her in 
the same manner — that he was kissing, not herself, but 
her voice. She was pleased with his verdict, for the little 
man had known and heard all the queens of song of his 
generation. 

He was too much excited to congratulate her in Eng- 
lish ; so let loose a flood of his own native language — so 
guttural, so hissing, so resonant were the fearful words he 
hurled at her, that no one could help the painful feeling that 
she was standing as best she could against a blast of the 
most terrible swearing. Then finishing up with a flourish 
of past participles or infinitives, which made his hearers’ 
hair stand on end, he shook both her hands like pump- 
handles, and collected his mind enough to recall his Eng- 
lish, and, like a modest man, apologize for the liberty he 
had taken. 

“ But she vill understand — yes, she vill gomprehend,” 
he said, turning with an apologetic face to the others, 
“ that it is not the voman I zalute, it is the artist.” 

“Now, that is flattering to me professionally, but not 
personally,” said Frances. 

“I cannot flatter you,” he said simply ; “you are abofe 
flattery — in both ways,” he added, for he was but human. 

Frances bowed with mock humility. 

“Now, go to bed. You ought never to have to-night 
zang — not even for me. Mrs. Trenfield, I go at once — she 
muk go to bed. Think if she has overdone it, and should- 
be ill. Oh, it will be terrible.” 

A prey to remorse, he took his leave as hastily as he en- 
tered. Mrs. Trenfield insisted that his instructions should 
be followed, and Frances, who was beginning to think the 
day had been long enough, was pleased to obey. 

Yet it was some time before she could sleep. She was 
in England^ and the turning-point of her life was at hand 


io8 A CARDINAL SIN. 

To her there was no middle station— nothing between suc« , 
cess and failure. She had not devoted herself to her art 
for the sake of earning money as a second or third-rate 
singer. She was bidding for such high rank that she 
trembled at her temerity ; yet nothing lower would satisfy 
her. What many would deem success would be failure to 
her. She would make her cast, and if it failed her career 
as a singer would close even as soon as it began. “The 
many fail, the one succeeds,” she repeated over and over 
again. Would she be of the many or be the one ? Any- 
way, a few weeks would make that clear. Her chance 
was at hand. 

For Frances, or, as the public would know her, Mdlle. 
Francesca, was to make her first appearance before an 
audience of any great account, early in the season, as 
Lucia di Lammermoor 


CHAPTER X. 

TAKING THE WORLD BY STORM., 

The approaching advent of a new prima doniia must 
make a little flutter in the musical world. The established 
favorites shrug their shoulders, but shake in their slioes 
all the same. They are never quite sure but the new- 
comer, whose appearance is heralded with the usual 
flourish of trumpets, may not be one among tiie many 
they have seen fail ; who is destined to share their king- 
dom, divide, and therefore somewhat detract from, theii 
popularity. But as they probably know little about her, 
they must wait as patiently as the public — wait and hope 
for the best — for themselves. Impresarios and ’managers 
know all about the ambitious stranger — their eyes have 
been upon her for years. Very likely, if she is thought 
worthy of it, the deepest diplomacy and stratagem has 
been used to secure her. But, if they know, they say lit- 
tle ; their disappointments have been so many, that they 
are chary of prophesying until after the event. Then 
tliey reap the reward of their acuteness, or bear silently 
the losses caused by their mistaken estimate. 

Yet it was curious when, among the attractions of the 
opera season, it was announced that Mdlle. Francesca 
would make her first appearance in England as Lucia, 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


109 


how many people knew all about her and her antecedents. 
It was more curious still how these well-informed people 
differed. She had a magnificent voice, but her appearance 
was nothing. Her voice was scarcely worth consideration, 
but she possessed great beauty. She could sing, but not 
act. She could act but not sing. She could do neither. 
She could do both. She was English, Italian, French, 
German, Spanish — everything. She was the wife of an 
Italian count ; she was the daughter of shop-keepers in 
Switzerland ; she was picked up some years ago playing 
the fiddle and singing outside a village inn, by that clever 

fellow M. . So on and so on. However, these gossips 

deserve to be encouraged ; they help to fulfil the great 
end of the age, advertisement ; and there can be nothing 
better happen to anyone who makes a bid for the public 
favor than to be associated with a little mystery. 

But there should have been no mystery attached to 
Mdlle. Francesca. Perhaps it was the very simplicity of 
her history, the lack of romance connected with her pre- 
vious career, that made people put her into all sorts of 
places and conditions of life, and endow her with the most 
conflicting attributes. Her history was only this : — 

She had left England, and placed herself in the best 
hands. She had studied lier part willingly, ungrudgingly, 
and intelligently. Intelligently, because she had trusted 
to the experience of those who knew the technical part of 
it thoroughly. As far as this went, she gave herself up un- 
reservedly to them, followed their counsels, mastered every 
detail, every — the phrase will slip out — trick of the trade. 
Yet if she knew this was indispensable she also knew that 
there must be something no master can teach — something 
words cannot explain, although the name for it is inspira- 
tion. It was whether this came to her or not meant suc- 
cess or failure ; for the rest she had no fear. She went to 
the furthest point tuition could lead her, both musically 
and histrionically. She was of a calm, steadfast nature — 
had no wish to meet fate unprepared. If she failed it 
should be through no fault of shirking the work which art 
demanded. In this respect her conscience was at ease 
Avhen her masters told her the time had come to prove her 
worth. Their task was ended ; hers must now begin. She 
had gone through the whole routine. She had appeared 
• — and successfully — on the minor Italian stages, now she 
must challenge the verdict of the capitals of the world. 

She had no difficulty ii^ finding a battle-field. The choice 


no 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


lay with her. A soprano with such range, power, and 
quality as her voice possessed is as rare as a great poet, 
and much more sought after. It can make her own and a 
dozen other people’s fortunes, while poets usually die insol- 
vent. There were plenty of people in Europe ready to 
give her the chance she wanted, but she had resolved to 
learn her fate from English lips. She felt she should be 
more at home with Englishmen that with Italians, Rus 
sians, or Germans. So the treaty between her and the 
manager of one of the great English opera-houses was 
duly signed and sealed. She had sold him her voice for 
three years ; but, with a generosity which staggered him, 
had insisted upon a clause to the effect of allowing him to 
rescind the contract, if he chose, within one month from 
her first appearance. This was that he should not lose if 
she failed. On the other hand, sh& was to play nothing 
but principal parts. 

The manager was fully satisfied with this arrangement. 
He had little doubt as to the success she would make. 
‘‘ If she only sung decently,” he said, complaisantly, “ she 
must go down, with such a face and figure — but face, fig- 
ure, and voice 1 ” 

Shortly after her arrival in England, little paragraphs 
about her began to creep into the papers. Musical critics 
mentioned her in their reviews and opera gossip. London 
correspondents said something about her in their letters. 
Society papers understood that Mdlle. Francesca, the new 
prima donna^ etc., etc. Some even hinted at her personal 
appearance being so very attractive. Some of the para- 
graphs were incorrect, but some so correct that the girl 
Vv’ondered who could have inspired them. Perhaps the 
manager knew ; he was a clever man, and neglected nothing. 
However, the ground was well prepared for her, and she 
felt that great things were expected of her. 

The days that must past before Mdlle. Francesca’s ordeal 
were busy ones. She had a thousand and one things to do. 
People to see — important people, some of them, whether 
theatrical, musical, or sartorial. She had much to learn 
and to study — then came rehearsals and study, study, 
study ever. As a distraction there was some legal business, 
for Mr. Tren field had now succeeded in getting the proper 
authority granted, and the money lying at the bank in John 
Boucher's name was made over to his daughter. The 
court threw no obstacle in the way, and the appeal was 
scarcely worth a reporter’s notice, or Philip Bourchier 


A CARDINAL S/Ar 


in 


might have been much astonished if he had seen an ac- 
count of it the next morning in the Times. As it was, it 
attracted no attention. 

Mr. Trenfield congratulated Frances upon her accession 
to comparative wealth. 

I must find you a safe investment for it,” he said. 

‘‘Yes, do what you like. How much will it bring me 
in?” 

“Nearly three hundred pounds a year, I hope.” 

“ I can live comfortably on that if I fail next month. I 
shall go to America if I do.” 

“ To try your luck with a New Yorl^audience ?” 

“ Oh, no. I shan’t sing again. I am very sensitive. If 
I fail now it is all over. I have every chance of success 
offered me — it will be my own fault. No, I shall go and 
look for Manders.” 

“ That’s absurd. A young woman can’t go hunting the 
world after a young man.” 

“ I will — some day.” And Mr. Trenfield, looking at her, 
and seeing resolution in every feature, knew she would. 

“ Don’t invest all that money,” she said, presently, “ I 
shall want a lot presently.” 

“ More dresses ?” 

“ I shall want to buy some diamonds.” 

“ I did not know you cared for jewelry.” 

“ I don’t ; but I shall want them, or I may want them. 
The public expects to see singers with diamonds. I al- 
ways did when I went to hear a great singer.” 

“You talk in a most business-like way. Now you speak 
of it, my people never come back from a grand concert 
without talking of the wonderful jewels Madame So-and- 
So wore. F . looks are more spoken of than her voice, I 
think.” 

“ It’s for concerts that I shall want them,” said Frances. 
“ But I’ll wait until Lucia is over.” 

“You put me in mind of my wife last year. She would 
not order a new dress until she heard whether an old aunt 
of mine would die or grow well.” 

“That's the principle exactly,” said Frances, smiling. 
“ We are both sensible women.” 

They lived very quietly down at Twickenham. Frances 
refused to make any fresh acquaintance. The people she 
was bound to see she saw. Herr Kaulitz was also always 
welcome. One day, moreover, she called on her old land- 
lady, Mrs. Stacey. The good woman received her with 


112 


A CAJ^DIjVAL sin. 


effusion, and besought her to honor hef by taking a cup 
of tea with her. It was, indeed, a great honor for Mrs. 
Stacey to entertain such a distinguished-looking young 
lady. 

“ Do you sing, miss, as much as ever ? ” asked Mrs. 
Stacey, after tea. 

Mdlle. Francesca, the coming prima donna^ was much 
amused at the question. 

“Oh, yes; quite as much, Mrs. Stacey. You remember 
my singing, then t ” 

“ La ! yes, miss. I used to creep up stairs and listen 
outside the door, ^ever in my born days did I liear any- 
thing like it — never ! ” 

“ I did not know it, or I should have asked you to come 
in.” 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Stacey. “But I should like 
to hear you again. Would you mind,” she asked, shame- 
facedly — “would you mind just singing me one little 
song ? The first-floor lodger has a piano, and he’s away 
now.” 

The good woman asked so earnestly that Frances had 
not the heart to refuse. She followed Mrs. Stacey to the 
drawing-room, which seemed very familiar to her ; then, 
to the accompaniment of a very discordant, ancient piano, 
the property of the first-floor lodger, she sang a couple of 
simple ballads in away that brought tears to Mrs. Stacey’s 
eyes. 

With all her classical face and bearing, Frances had a 
sense of humor ; and the incongruity of the present situa- 
tion appealed to it almost irresistibly. Mdlle. Francesca, 
whose name was on all music lovers’ lips ; who had only 
since she came to England sung to one outsider, Herr 
Kaulitz, exercising her gifts for the pleasure of a poor, 
hard-worked lodging-house keeper, and singing to a little 
cracked piano, which should have been cut up long ago 
for firewood and rat-traps. It was very comical — she 
could scarcely help laughing aloud. 

“ Mr. Manders, he sang beautifully, too,” said Mrs. 
Stacey. “ Do you know where he is, miss ? ” 

“No. I intended to ask you. He never returned, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ No. He left some boxes and things here. He’s never 
sent for them. I don’t know what to do with them. I 
think the poor young man must have died.” 

“ I don’t think so,” said Frances, reflecting. 


A CARD/iVAL ShV. 


”3 


It seemed veiy strange that Manders had not fetched or 
sent for his belongings. 

“ If you hear from him — if he writes for his things — ■ 
will you let Mr. Trenfield know at once ?” slie asked. 

“ Certainly I will, miss. Must you go now ? It was so 
kind of you to call.” 

Mrs. Stacey was much surprised, some little time after- 
ward, at receiving two tickets for a forthcoming perform- 
ance at the opera-house. They were accompanied by s 
note from Frances, hoping, as she was so fond of singing, 
Mrs. Stacey would make use of them. The recipient was 
greatly flattered, and putting on her best clothes, and call- 
ing upon her son — the smart lad at the auctioneer's — to 
escort her, she went, and was, it may be supposed, aston- 
ished at what she saw and heard. 

Truly, if Mdlle. Francesca made a success, it would be a 
genuine one. With the exception of Mrs. Stacey, Kaulitz, 
the Trenfields, and one or two other persons the manager 
had found it useful to present to her, no one in front of 
the curtain would be called upon to raise a breath of ap- 
plause from friendship’s sake. No wonder, brave as she 
was, that the girl felt lonely and at times dispirited — no 
wonder she had envied Allan Bourchier his family circle. 

Once or twice she gave a thought to the liandsome 
young man who had been her fellow-voyager. Mr. Tren- 
field, who had seen him bid her farewell at Newhaven, 
would sometimes rally her upon the subject ; for when 
people grew to know Frances, they ceased to fear her, and 
spoke to her as if she were an ordinary mortal. And once 
she saw him in London. She had hired a quiet little 
brougham to take her about — from the station to the 
theatre, or wherever she wanted to go. Driving down 
Piccadilly, she saw him standing on the steps of one of the 
clubs, talking to two other men. Flis face was partly 
turned away, so her carriage passed him without his seeing 
who was inside it. She little knew how much time he 
spent looking at passing carriages and people, in the hope 
of seeing her at last. She was unconscious of that, and he 
was unconscious that the object of his pursuit had just 
passed him. Frances smiled to herself as she thought of 
his evident mystification when they parted. Had she 
known his name I believe she would have sent him, anony- 
mously of course, an order for a box on the eventful night. 
She would have feared little if all the critics were like that 
young fellow. But not knowing his name, she could only 


14 


A CARDINAL SIN 


hope he might be there of his own accord. She enjoyed 
in imagination his surprise. 

The day of days dawned at last Before the midnight 
all would be over — the best or the worst known ; and 
everything that was not the best would be the worst To 
say that Frances was calm and confident would be to 
represent her as more than mortal. It is a great deal to 
say that she did not show her hopes and fears to every one 
slie came in contact witli ; did not worry herself by them 
till she was in a state of nervousness which w’ould at the 
first check or obstacle almost insure a complete breakdown. 
She went for a long solitary walk in the morning, after- 
ward rehearsed her part for the last time, and for some 
hours before the performance began lay down and tried to 
rest. Then the moment came. 

She would not have postponed it had it been in her 
power so to do. She was in perfect health, perfect voice. 
She had already faced audiences, and believed she would 
not be rendered incompetent by that stumbling-block to 
beginners — stage-fright ; so, a few minutes before she was 
called upon to step on to the stage, her emotions were un- 
der far better control than those of certain deeply inter- 
ested gentlemen, who were giving her a few last words of 
kindly encouragement and advice. 

She had from the first stipulated that Donizetti’s great 
opera should be the one in which her first attempt should 
be made. Till its German rival drives Italian opera com- 
pletely from the stage, Lucia will always be a favorite 
character with ambitious sopranos. Absurd as most of the 
situations and all the surroundings are, there is in the part 
of the heroine plenty of room for a display of acting. 
Love, fear, and madness are strong passions, and give 
great scope for effect. Mdlle. Francesca knew what she 
was about when she decided to stand or fall by Lucia. 

She knew every bar of the music by heart — she heard 
them slipping away one by one, comparing their passing 
to the sands running out of an hour-glass. The opening 
chorus is over now. Enrico, Lormanno, and Raimondo 
are on the boards, the scena is ended, and she hears her cruel 
brother’s grand baritone voice begin the cavatina— “ Cruda, 
funesta, smania.” How soon page after page of the music 
flies ! How quickly that oft-repeated, melodious, but ter- 
rible vow of vengeance is got over! The second number 
of the opera is ended. She hears the first bars of the in- 
troduction to the third number, and her heart begins to 


A CARDhVAL SJJV. 


throb fis it has never throbbed before. Yes, she would 
postpone the trial now — if she could. The deeply inter- 
ested gentleman by her side gave her one quick inquiring 
look, then Itke a sensible man turned his eyes away. It 
was too late in the day for counsel or advice. Then, how 
slie never knew, Lucia was standing with her companion 
Alisa on the great stage, and facing her audience. 

What were her thoughts ? Her first one was of disap^ 
pointment ; the large house looked so empty ; her next 
was that she was to open her mouth to sing ; her last was 
a kind of wonder where she was to find her voice. For a 
moment it seemed far away from her lips. But to her 
great surprise, she did find it, and managed to produce the 
three words of recitative, “ Ancor non giunse ! ” with which 
Lucia’s part opens. 

It was, perhaps, fortunate that after that beginning the 
strain is for a few bars taken up by Alisa, llie respite 
was a short one, but long enough for Frances to breathe a 
thought of gratitude to the composer. It was long enough 
for her confidence in herself to become quite restored — 
long enough for her to forget the audience, to forget 
where she was, what was at stake — to become transformed 
into the poor, persecuted girl she represented. The scetia 
was finished faultlessly, and then came the solo, “Regnava 
nel silenzio,” in which her first effort must be made. 
There was room in this for the actor’s art. By aid of it 
she could express the horror felt at the sight of the appa- 
rition at the fountain, and change from horror to delight 
as the words and music described the deathless love she 
felt for Edgardo. As her voice, clear as a silver bell, and 
powerful enough to fill every inch of that large house, rose 
and fell with cadences of the music, the rival queens who 
could not help coming to hear and judge for themselves 
knew that she would leave that stage their equal. 

Edgardo came. She was very fortunate in her stage 
lover. He was the tenor of the day, and could act as well 
as sing. The long love duet between the ill-used pair was 
rendered with complete success. They were tender, pas- 
sionate, fearful — in fact, everything that two such romantic 
young people should be. Edgardo, on the stage, was a 
handsome man, so that Lucia’s devotion to him seemed 
perfectly natural. Many tenors, who happen to be short 
or stout, or old looking, are very terrible as the Master of 
Ravenswood. Such a romantic being should be fittingly 
represented. This one made delicious love to Lucia^ and 


li6 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


the younger and more ardent of men in the audience wha 
saw him do so would have been shocked had he failed. in 
this respect — the girl’s beauty having at once struck every- 
one. To be a judge of music is acquired — to- be a judge 
of beauty comes natural to all men. 

Whatever might have been the manager’s secret fears 
and doubts, which, to do him justice, he breathed to no 
one, all were set at rest as the curtain fell on the first act. 
The spontaneous recall said that Francesca had not failed 
Edgardo led her before the curtain, and when the pair re- 
turned she was carrying a bouquet — an actress’ first bou- 
quet. Is it, I wonder, as beautiful a thing to her as his 
first proof sheet is to an author ? Certainly it is a prettier 
and much less troublesome affair. 

The house was full when she came on in the second act 
Now that she felt her success was all but assured, she sur- 
passed herself. Her singing and acting with Enrico and 
the unwelcome wooer Arturo were superb. By this time 
the house was crowded. Royalty, even, was there, and its 
gracious representative, like a true music lover, and one 
who understands the art, was giving the stage his undi- 
vided attention. There is a double, a treble recall at the 
end of the second act, and so many bouquets fell that 
Edgardo’s arms were full of the floral tributes. 

The manager rubbed his hands, and dreamed of fortune. 
He would have liked to have embraced his new star, as 
he calculated what he might hope to make out of her in 
the next three years. He had made many failures and a 
few good hits, but Mdlle. Francesca promised to be the 
best hit he had ever made. 

“If she can keep it up to the end,” he said, “she’ll be 
reckoned the best Lucia that ever appeared !” 

The crowning effort had yet to be made. The mad 
scene in the third act is the one on which the stage Bride 
of Lammermoor must rest her reputation. To go mad, 
and lift this appearance from the absurdity of the situation, 
requires an actress. She has to make her audience forget 
that the retainers are standing around her, and in a most 
unconcerned way regarding her paroxysms. She has, in 
her madness, after it is understood she has stabbed Ar- 
turo, to depict nearly every passion that humanity is capa- 
ble of feeling. For a long time she holds the stage en- 
tirely. Others are there, but they are utterly disregarded, 
even forgotten— everything is centred on Lucia— and 
Lucia was equal to the demand upon her. The tender- 


A CARDINAL SIN 


117 

ness with which she recalled the love scenes between her- 
self and Egardo — the fear she showed at the remembrance 
of the phantom which had threatened her, the joyful 
transition to that state of mind which made her believe 
her marriage with her lover was in the act of being cele- 
brated, her reproach to Enrico, her explanation of her 
falseness to the imaginary Edgardo, her assurance that she 
loved him only — every point was rightly made, every gest- 
ure and expression was truthful, and her voice seemed to 
grow in its wonderful power and sweetness as iier part in 
the play drew to an end ; and when the poor, betrayed 
girl fell senseless, there were many w'eeping eyes among 
the audience. 

Success ! The annals of the opera house could scarcely 
show such another. Even while her unfortunate Edgardo 
was singing his pathetic melodies at the tomb of his 
fathers, preparatory to accomplishing his own end, a mes- 
sage was sent from the royal box begging she might be 
conducted thither. Upon her obeying the summons, the 
most exalted personage there, with his own lips, congratu- 
lated her, and praised her performance, using those par- 
ticularly appropriate words which always seemed to be at 
his command at the right moment. She bowed and ex- 
pressed her gratitude for the honor done to her, and then 
liad to hurry back behind the scenes, as the curtain was 
just about to fall on Edgardo’s last moments, and the public 
were free to express their feelings, which they lost no time 
in doing. 

The applause came in a storm — a lasting storm. Time 
after time Mdllc. Francesca went before the curtain and 
made her acknowledgments ; the audience seemed never 
to be wearied of seeing her. By the enthusiasm shown it 
might have been in France or Italy, such a sustained meed 
of applause being almost unknown in sober England. So 
many times did she appear in answer to the call that at 
last she began to find it growing monotonous, and was un- 
grateful enough to hope that each call would be the last. 
After a while she gave up counting the number. What- 
ever it was, it was enough to assure her that her success 
was real. At last the people grew tired and left the 
theatre ; and Mdlle. Francesca, like a sensible girl, went — 
under Mr. Trenfield’s protection — to the hotel at which she 
was staving for the night. She had succeeded beyond her 
wildest hopes — beyond the wildest hopes of her most 
sanguine friends. Her triumph must be a solid one. The 


ii8 


A CARDIN’AL 'Sm. 


applause had been led by no personal friends ; the great 
reception she had met with had been given with free good 
wull by the large audience, who had come equally ready to 
applaud or condemn her, as she deserved. She was very 
liappy — very proud. 

There was a quiet supper at the hotel. The Trenfields 
were all staying there for the night, and Herr Kaulitz was 
bidden to attend. The little man wept tears of pure joy at 
his favorite's triumph ; while Charlie Trenfield. who had 
clapped his hands together until tliey were quite swollen, 
ate his supper somewhat sorrowfully, feeling that any wild 
hope he had ever nourished must now be at an end. His 
father had spoken the truth — Miss Boucher would in a 
very short time have the world at her feet. 

This might be, but to-night she was as kind and simple 
to all as if she were but an ordinary young woman. She 
felt thankful that the ordeal was over, and more thankful 
that she had not failed. 

As she undressed herself preparatory to taking a well- 
earned night’s rest, a smile crossed her face. She was 
wondering if that tall young man, whose name she knew 
not, had been in the theatre. She rather hoped he had 
been there, although she did not know why she had formed 
the wish. Very likely they would never meet again. 


CHAPTER XI. 

REPENTING AT LEISURE. 

When Allan Bourchier told his travelling companion 
that the shock of his sister’s clandestine marriage had 
nearly killed his father, he was, making allowances for the 
usual exaggeration of such statements, sa3ung something 
very nearly the truth, although he did not know the true 
source of the emotion which had caused Philip Bourchier 
to fall like a log and for some days to lie in what was called 
a critical state. He did not know that his wild rage at the 
news was even more injurious in its effects than the sor- 
row he felt at Josephine’s conduct. He did not know that 
his father blamed himself more than he blamed his daughter 
—blamed himself for not having bought the interloper’s 
silence, even at a cost of half his income — blamed himself 
for having-been so weak as to yield — for not having defied 


A CARDINAL SIN 


H9 

the man to do the worst he could do. Like all other dan- 
gers, now it was over it did not seem so great. 

Philip Bourchier wondered how he could have let this 
fellow overreach him ; how he, a clever man of the world, 
could have allowed himself to be so foolish as to be made 
the tool of a boy, and used to destroy his nearest and dear- 
est. He almost raved in his fury as he thought of Joseph- 
ine’s future in this man’s hands. So clearly did he by 
manner and words show the excited state of his mind, that 
the doctor told him that unless he could calm himself his 
recovery would be retarded an indefinite time. As he could 
do nothing, either for his daughter or himself, until he got 
well, he was compelled to obey the doctor, and curb his 
fits of wrath and paroxysms of rage against his new son- 
in law. 

• His first act upon recovering anything like health was to 
write to Digby, and command him to come to London for 
an interview. His letter found Digby very happy and 
comfortable at Redhills. Josephine was in a sort of Arca- 
dian dream, and spent every moment of the day in the wor- 
ship of the noble being who had given her his love. He 
was very kind and affectionate to her. No man, however 
great a rascal, could help being so directly after marriage 
with such a dear little girl. He was really fond of her, 
or fancied he was, and was good enough to frame a mental 
wish that he should not by and by get tired of her, and 
find her attentions and affectionate solicitude a bore. 

The only drawback to the girl’s perfect happiness was 
the fact of her father’s illness, which she could not help 
connecting in some way with her marriage. Mrs. Bour- 
chier had written her a few hasty lines, telling her that her 
father had suddenly been taken unwell, and Mabel had 
from day to day written and apprised her as to the condi- 
tion of the invalid. Neither of the women said a word 
cither of reproach or congratulation — Mabel because re- 
quested by her mother not to do so, and Mrs. Bourchier 
because she was so frightened at the course events had 
taken, and the consequences thereof, that she feared to 
move a step in the matter without her husband’s consent. 

So it was that many little agonies of remorse and fear 
played in and out of Josephine’s new-wedded bliss. But 
then Digby laughed them away. What wrong had they 
done ? They had not run away like criminals ; they had at 
once returned to her father’s house — or that house which 
he intended to bestow on Mr. Bourchier. All she had done 


120 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


was to consent to his wish of having a quiet wedding — a 
wedding which would save the whole family from destruc- 
tion, for he would keep his word with her to the fullest in- 
terpretation — would retain just enough for himself and 
his little wife to live upon as a lady and gentleman, and 
confirm Mr. Bourchier and her brother, if necessary, in 
the possession of the remainder. All would be right — 
chase away the fears, kiss him, and come for a stroll 
through the woods or a ride across country. She did 
as he told her, and felt comforted — he must know best. 
Was there ever such a dear, good, noble, handsome hus- 
band as her Digby ? 

One morning a note came for Digby. He was glad to 
receive it, being anxious to know how Mr. Bourchier in- 
tended to act ; or, as he put it to himself, “ if he would take 
it lying down or fighting." The letter gave no information- 
on this nice point. It was a coldly written request, or 
more than a request, that Mr. Digby Bourchier would come 
to town without delay, as the writer wished an interview. 
Digby read it and tossed it over to his wife. Her eyes 
sparkled as she saw her father’s handwriting. 

“ Oh, I am glad ! He must be better, as he writes him- 
self." 

“ Papa doesn’t write very lovingly to his new son,’’ said 
Digby. 

“ No,’’ said Josephine, much discontented at the tenor of 
the letter. “ But you will go and see him ? ’’ 

“ Of course I shall. I’ll go to-morrow.’’ 

“ And I may come with you ?’’ 

Digby reflected. 

“ Do you want to go ?’’ 

Do I want to go ! I am longing to see papa and mamma, 
and Mabel. Besides, I want some things ; I’ve scarcely a 
dress to wear. Of course, I shall go with yoii.’’ 

“There will bean awful row I’m afraid. Hadn’t you 
better keep out of it ?’’ 

“ No, sir ; if we are to be scolded, I must take my share 
of it. I am as much to blame as you. But why should 
they scold ? Besides, I must go ; I can’t be quite happy 
until they all forgive me." 

“Very well — we’ll go to-morrow." 

Digby kissed her, and lighted a cigar. He was moody 
and thoughtful for the rest of the day — looking over his 
weapons for the fight to-morrow ; a fight which he expected 
would tax all his resources heavily. 


A CARDIN-AL SIN. 


12 X 

The young couple arrived at Mr, Bourchier's town house 
in due time the next day. Mrs. Bourchier and Mabel re- 
ceived Josephine affectionately, but sadly ; they shook 
hands coldly with Digby, but neither said a word respect- 
ing the new relationship between them. Digby was asked 
to go to the library, where Mr. Bourchier awaited him. 
Josephine was anxious to accompany him ; she had some 
idea that the fellow-culprits should throw themselves on 
their knees, to be raised, after a few words of reproach, by 
a mollified father, who would bless them, and fold her to 
liis bosom. She began to grow a little frightened when 
her mother insisted that Digby should see Mr. Bourchier 
alone. He gave her a reassuring nod, and followed Mrs. 
Bourchier with a confident step to the library, the door of 
which she opened and let him pass in unannounced. 

Bad as the impostor was, he almost felt pity as his eyes 
fell upon his father-in-law, and he saw him thin, worn, and 
looking ten years older than when the two men last met. 
Had he been the person he pretended to be — the son of 
the murdered man — and had it been his mission to take 
full measure of vengeance on the murderer^ he could not 
have gone about it in a mpre successful way. As far as 
health went, Mr. Bourchier seemed a broken man ; yet 
there was a look of stern determination on his face, which 
told Digby that he meant to fight, and fight hard. It was, 
when he saw that look, the young man began to fear lest 
he had been too clever in his plots — had spun his webs too 
finely and artistically— whether the thread which closed 
and completed the network of schemes would not hamper 
his own movements. 

He stood waiting for Mr. Bourchier to speak. He ex- 
pected a torrent of reproaches and threats. He was not 
sure but that he might have to defend himself against per- 
sonal violence. Yet, after all, he found that Mr. Bourchier 
had little to say. That gentleman fixed his eyes on his 
visitor with a look of scorn, bitterness, and contempt. 

“ I intended to kill you for this,” he said, without a word 
of preface ; “but I have changed my mind. Scoundrel as 
you are, in this matter you have been a fool. You will see 
it by and by. All I want to see you about now is in re- 
spect to money matters.” 

In spite of himself his listener was taken aback. He did 
not quite see Mr. Bourchier’s drift respecting his folly. 
True, he had counted a great deal on the love the father 
bore toward his daughter. 


122 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


Money matters,” he said ; “yes, we must arrange some- 
thing now. I am willing to ” 

“Your wife,” said Mr. Bourchier, interrupting him, 
“your wife when she is of age will have three hundred a 
year of her own. The capital, I am pleased to say, is set- 
tled on herself. What are your means ? ” 

“ I am the owner of about ten thousand a year when I 
^choose to claim it.” 

“ We will leave that out of the question. What else ?” 

“ I have something over two hundred pounds in my 
pocket-book at present,” answered Digby, attempting bra- 
vado. 

“Really!” said Mr. Bourchier, with a return of his old 
sarcasm. “ For an adventurer you are well equipped.” 

“You insult me, Mr. Bourchier.” 

Digby drew himself up in approved fashion. Mr. Bour- 
chier paid no attention to the remark or to the attitude. 

“As my daughter, even if your wife, must live as much 
like a lady as is possible under such circumstances, I shall 
pay two hundred pounds every quarter-day to her credit 
at Coutts’. When she comes of age I shall reduce this 
amount by the income which will be her own. Now, be 
good enough to leave me.” 

“This is absurd, Mr. Bourchier.'' 

“ Be good enough to leave me. Or, stay a minute. I 
should mention that I shall always be willing to see my 
child ; but if you approach me, I will take steps to prevent 
such a nuisance being repeated. I shall come down to 
Redhills next week, and if you are not gone, I shall kick 
you out.” 

Digby was white with passion. “ You are a rash man,” 
he exclaimed. “ I will ruin you ! ” 

“I am not rash. It is as I said before — you have been 
too clever. You were to be bought. 1 would have given 
a fair price. You took your own mode of payment. You 
are silenced. You can’t expect any tale of yours to be 
credited now.” 

“ If I am bought and silenced,” said Digby, with a wicked 
meaning in his voice, “ the price, remember, is your fa- 
vorite daughter.” 

His words made every nerve in Mr. Bourchier’s body 
thrill. He rose and pointed to the door. “ Go,” he said. 
“Never speak to me — never let me see your face again.” 

Digby saw his shaft had gone home. 

“ All right;” he said, carelessly, “ I’ll go now ; but we 


A CARDINAL SIN 


123 


shall have lots to talk about before we’ve done with one 
another.” 

Josephine was waiting for him ; she was growing very 
anxious. He gave her a smile and a kiss. She blushed 
like a rose, for her mother and sister were in the room, and 
these conjugal amenities in public were a new experience. 

“ Better go and see the old boy,” he whispered. “ I can 
do nothing with him — he’s very cranky. I’ll go out and 
stroll about for half an hour ; then come back Vor you.” 

“We’re not going back to-night,” cried Josephine, in 
dismay. 

“Oh yes, we are, by the 4.40. We haven’t much time 
to spare.” 

As neither her mother nor Mabel objected, Josephine 
did as her husband suggested. 

It was when she saw her father that she realized what 
she had done. The look he gave her said as plainly as 
words that it was her work — yet it was not a look of anger. 
It was a look which made her rush forward, throw herself 
on her knees before him, and, with her head on his shoul- 
der, sob out entreaties for forgiveness. He stroked her 
bright hair tenderly. 

“ Poor little girl — poor little Finey — I have forgiven 
you. No reproaches from me shall add to the bitterness 
of your future life. My poor butterfly, your summer days 
are over.” 

He kissed the face that nestled by his own with a kiss 
that told the girl he had forgiven, and loved her still. It 
is not necessary for a man to be a good man to love his 
children fondly. That is ar purely animal instinct, and, 
moreover,with human beings, phrenologists say, regulated 
by the gradations in size of a bump at the back of the 
head. If his manner at times was stern and even cold to 
them, no man in the world loved his children more truly 
than Philip Bourchier. Digby had taken a heavy price for 
his silence. 

Happy as Josephine felt in his forgiveness, the words 
coupled with it alarmed her. 

“ My future life, papa ! ” she said. “ Oh, it will be such 
a happy life, now you forgive me. Digby meant it for the 
best.” 

He looked at her thoughtfully and sadly. 

“ Poor little girl ! Tell me, Josephine, if a great trouble 
must come, would you rather be prepared for it, or, that 
it came like a thunder-clap ? ” 


124 


A CARDIiVAL Sm. 


His manner frightened her. 

“ I don’t know,” she said. “ But you must tell me what 
you mean — you are frightening me.” 

“Yes ; I had better tell you. Put your arms round my 
neck — I am your father and I love you.” 

She clasped him and kissed him fondly. Oh, how worn 
and ill he looked ! 

‘Josephine, I said your future would be a bitter one. 
Oh, my poor girl, you have married the blackest-hearted 
villain in England ! ” 

She started up, her cheeks flaming, the tears springing 
to her eyes. 

“ Oh, papa! How can you say so ! You of everybody 
in the world. You must know how good, how noble he 
is ; what he is going to give up for all our sakes. That 
was why I married him like that.” 

“Then you don’t love him ?” asked her father, eagerly. 

“Not love him! Who could help loving him? So 
good, so self-sacrificing. Oh, papa,” she cried, “ I thought 
you would be so glad that all would be settled. I did not 
think you would say unkind things of Digby.” 

“ What has he sacrificed ? — what is he going to give up ? ” 

“ Redhills — your estate, papa,” said Josephine, proudly. 

Mr. Bourchier ground his teeth, and heaped another 
curse on his daughter’s husband. This was superfluous 
and useless, for had his Curses carried any virtue the ob- 
ject of them would long ago have been past plotting and 
scheming. 

“ Josephine,” he said, very gravely, but tenderly, “ I am 
your father, and have a right to be believed. That man 
has no more claim on my estate than my butler has. No 
matter what he tells you — what papers he shows you— it 
is an imposture.” 

She was bewildered, stunned — what did it all mean ? 
She pressed her hands to her temples and began to think. 
Which was the true — which the false ? 

“ But, papa,” she asked, hesitatingly, “if what Digby 
says is not true, why did you ask him to stay with us, and 
tell us he was our cousin.” 

He shuddered. If she were to ask her husband that 
question. Somehow he could not believe the man would 
tell her the truth. It would recoil on himself, for his 
daughter would at once see through the scheme, and would 
probably leave the husband to return to the father, how- 
ever great the latter’s guilt might be. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


125 

There was the deepest pathos in his voice as he answered 
her. 

“ That is my fault or my misfortune. As you love me, 
never ask me or your husband why. Mind, Josephine, I 
have every reason to say that he is your cousin ; but his 
claim on the estate is an invention — his generosity the bait 
he used for you. It is because I brought him to my house 
that I forgive you — that I shall always be glad to see you 
— that when you are in trouble you may come to me. 
Kiss me once more and say good-by.” 

Who should she believe ? Her father, to whom she had 
lisped her earliest words, or her husband, who a few weeks 
ago was a stranger to her ? Like every woman, sad as the 
fact is, she believed her husband. After all, a woman’s 
future life is in her husband’s hands, and one likes to 
fence with misfortune as long as possible, to keep off 
while one can the deadly thrust which takes away, not life, 
but hope, youth, trust, love — all that is worth living for. 
Pity Josephine, do not blame her. She will want your 
pity. 

She left the library weeping bitterly. From the dining- 
room window she saw her husband, walking up and down 
the pavement, smoking, as was his usual custom. He did 
not smoke at any particular time or in any particular place 
— he simply smoked when he could. It was one little flaw 
in his behavior which Josephine had as yet condoned. She 
called him in. 

“ VVe must be quick,” he said. “ Do you want to pack 
anything ? ” 

“ Yes ; a few things.” 

So Mabel and Josephine went iip-stairs. Mabel, who 
was quite prepared to say the most severe things to her 
sister when an opportunity occurred, changed her mind at 
the sight of the little girl’s evident distress — comforted, 
petted, and caressed her. What censure she gave fell on 
Digby’s shoulders, not on Josephine’s. Mabel had always 
acted the elder sister, but to-day Josephine, with her new 
troubles and uncertainties, felt years her senior. Besides, 
she dare not tell her anything that had transpired between 
her father and herself at their recent interview. She could 
only say he had fully forgiven her, but not Digby. 

“I should think not,” said Mabel, whose wrath was hot 
against her brother-in-law. 

They just caught the 4.40. Both were very silent driv- 
ing to the station. Josephine was too unhappy to talk, 


126 


A CARDIA-'AL SIN. 


and her husband had a delicate question to decide. He 
had by now come to the conclusion that Mr. Bourchier had 
been quite right. He had been too clever. The price he 
had been paid or liad taken was inadequate. If he had 
been more matter of fact, and abjured anything romantic, 
he might iiave done remarkably well. He might, he be- 
lieved, haye sold his silence to Mr. Bourchier for, say, 
twenty or thirty thousand pounds, if he had been content 
to go in for simple extortion money. As it was, he had 
won in the delicate game he had been playing eight hun- 
dred a year and a wife. He had overreached himself. 
Like all young players, a deep finesse had been an irresist- 
ible temptation — the finesse had failed. The new trump 
which marriage had brought into his hand was his antago- 
nist’s love for his daughter ; but it had not scored as 
he thought it would. In plain words, he had been defied 
to do his worst — and what was his wt)rst ? He was in a 
weaker position than when he was dismissed with con- 
tumely after his first interview with Philip Bourchier, and 
he scarcely saw where the card of the value of Stokes’s 
evidence, which changed the aspect of the game, was now 
to come from. And Josephine ? Of course he was very 
fond of her, as he was of all pretty girls who loved him—* 
for a time. 

Somehow Josephine did not look so pretty at this mo- 
ment. Her father had been riglit in calling her a butter- 
fly. Rain does not improve butterflies, and tears did not 
improve Josephine. Great, dark, tragic beauties, with 
\ cream-colored complexions, may be more attractive than 
ever in their woe ; but little, fair, bright women should 
never weep. Their skins are too thin, and the nervous 
sanguine complexion has a knack of reddening. Joseph- 
ine, when in good spirits, and with everything pleasant 
in life surrounding her, was as charming a little blonde 
as you could meet with ; but tears did not suit her ; and 
on the drive to Paddington she wept copiously and vigor- 
ously. Hei grief was enhanced by the fact of the newly 
married couple being allowed to depart in a hansom — not 
being taken properly to the station in her father’s carriage. 
It was the first' taste of the bitter future. Scarcely pathet- 
ical — bathetical, rather — but ominous. 

Her husband noticed her changed appearance, and won- 
dered how it was he ever thought her so beautiful. This 
was the hackneyed “ little rift within the lute.” 

He asked her one or two questions. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


127 


“What did the old fellow say to you V* was the first. 

She gave a little shiver. The form in which he couched 
his inquiry struck her as being, if not atrociously vulgar, 
too familiar. 

“ Oh, I can’t tell you. Such dreadful things, Digby ; 
they are not true ?” 

The question did not imply doubt, only desire to be 
doubly assured. 

“True!” he said, with an irritable laugh. “If they 
were to my detriment, you may depend they are not true. 
He ought to know better, for his own sake.” 

He was silent for a while,, busy with his own thoughts. 
He forgot his wife’s presence. 

“ Cursed old fool ! ” he hissed out, with an unmistaka- 
ble emphasis. 

“ Wlio ? Who, Digby ? ” she said ; and as she spoke the 
pale, careworn, but loving face of her father rose before 
her. 

He saw the slip he had made. 

“ The fool driving. We shall never catch the train.” 

His explanation was adroit ; but as the cabman was a 
very young man, and at that moment was lashing his 
horse and driving like a fury in hope of earning the extra 
fare promised to him^ it scarcely satisfied Josephine. She 
dared not own her doubt, even to herself ; but she felt as 
one of the devotees to the Prophet of Khorassan might 
have felt, if an inch of the veil had slipped aside for a 
second, and had been so quickly replaced as to leave her 
uncertain whether the glimpse of horror she saw was real 
or imagined. 

He asked her some questions also as to what sort of a 
fellow her brother Allan was. He had not yet met him, 
these momentous events having occurred in term time, 
while Allan was in residence at Oxford. Neither had he 
met the younger son, Kenneth, who was a delicate lad, 
and under the care of a private tutor at Bournemouth. 
Allan being a subject Josephine could enlarge upon, she 
did so, and finished up her panegyric by prophesying as to 
the friendship which would at once spring up between two 
such high-minded persons as her husband and her brother; 
and all the while she spoke the thoughts of the former ran 
in this fashion : 

“Seems to me the old boy’s breaking. Won’t I work 
Allan when he does succeed to the estate — that’s all ! ” 

The thought of this quite cheered him up, and he was 


128 


A CARDINAL SIN 


very kind to his wife on the journey down. They caught 
the last train from Sleeford, and, having telegraphed for a 
carriage to meet them at Brackley, reached Redhills that 
night. Five days afterward Mr. and Mrs. Digby Bourchier 
went back to London, and, taking a small house, com- 
menced housekeeping on their own account. 

All this, you know, occurred some three years before 
Mdlle. Francesca made her successful debut in Lucia ; and 
by this time Josephine fully understood the meaning of 
her father’s sorrowful prognostications. Her idol was 
mutilated, despised, and overthrown ; but the fall of it had 
crushed the brightness out of her, and she was now a girl 
in years, but a woman in sadness and lost illusions. 

For a while the two went on fairly well. The young 
wife could deceive herself ; she would not meet the truth. 
As long as her husband loved or pretended to love her, 
she insisted upon trusting him, although her trust had to 
face several shocks. It was but natural that her great 
desire was to prove herself in the right, by her husband 
signing the renunciation of his birthright, as he grandilo- 
quently called it. She hinted at this as delicately as she 
could ; then ventured to ask him outright to make the 
promised settlement. First he evaded the subject ; then 
he told her, sternly, to mention it no more. It displeased 
him. Her father had treated him shamefully. It was his 
place to approach him. When that approachment took 
place he was ready to do all he had promised. The months 
went by and Mr., Bourchier made no sign. A chilling 
dread crept into the girl’s heart. Had she been deceived 
— was her father’s version the true one ? If so, what could 
she think of her husband ? In a very short time the idol 
began to totter. 

Allan and Digby did not hit it off together. Her 
brother had been to see her several times. " He was too 
fond of her to forsake her because she had . made an im- 
prudent marriage. The two young men met and, by com- 
mon consent, disliked each other. Allan spoke his mind 
roundly to Mabel as to Josephine having been the victitn 
of a specious cad — for he saw through veneer. Jndeed, 
latterly, Digby had not taken so much trouble to show a 
polished surface, and some of his sayings and doings were, 
to say the least, a matter of surprise to his worshipper. 

Then money troubles began. Digby was expensive in 
his tastes, and Josephine thought less of money than any- 
thing else. At the end of the first year they were deeply 


129 


A CARDINAL SIN. 

in debt. He wrote to Mr. Bourchier, and demanded 
money to pay his creditors. Mr. Bourchier sent the ictier 
back torn in half. Then he insisted upon Joscpliine mak- 
ing an appeal to her father. She was kindly but sadiv re- 
ceived ; but Mr. Bourchier was inflexible in his refusal. 
Perhaps she pressed him rather faint-heartedly. Tier 
husband was an idol no longer — scarcely a mystery even. 
She felt degraded by having to make the request ; only 
her husband’s entreaties — commands even — had induced 
her to sink so low. It was when she returned empty- 
handed from her unpleasant errand that she saw once for 
all her husband in his true lurid light — saw his face with- 
out even the semblance of a mask over it — saw the black- 
ness of his heart without his attempting to soften or con- 
ceal it. Siie lieard the curses come from his lips — directed 
at her — and then the girl knew what she had done, and 
shuddered at the future. Her butterfly days were indeed 
over ! 

From that day he commenced a course of neglect and 
ill-usage — commenced and can ied it out with deliberation 
and purpose to gain his own ends. He had now to strike 
Mr. Bourchier through his child ; it was her safety and 
happiness the father must purchase. He did not abso- 
lutely bring physical violence to bear upon her, but for a 
time he tried every other method by which a man may tor- 
ture a woman without infringing the law. Josephine was 
not altogether weak and silly ; certain characters show un- 
expected traits under certain circumstances. She knew 
she had been deceived and wronged, and this knowledge 
enabled her to face her tormentor bravmly for a titne. 
Then she possessed a good deal of pride — the Bourchiers 
all possessed pride — so she offered an unexpected resist- 
ance. It was not until lie made her life unbearable that 
she sought her father’s protection. This was what her 
brutal liusband had counted upon. He went after her, 
forced his way into the house, and claimed his wife. It 
was only Mr. Bourchiers express command which pre- 
vented Allan, who happened to be at home, from throwing 
him out neck and crop. The upshot of it all was another 
interview with Mr. Bourchier — a distinct avowal that he 
was ill-using his wife to wring money froni her father ; a 
peremptory demand that she should be restored to him ; a 
threat that if proceedings were commenced in the divorce 
court, to put an end to his power over her, other things 
would be made public, even if he, Digby Bourchier, went 

9 


130 


A CARDIjVAL SIIV. 


to pieces in the general explosion. If, on the other hand, 
the money he wanted was paid, and a much larger income 
guaranteed for the future, he would treat his wife kindly. 
Return with him she must ; so long as he was fairly dealt 
with she would have no more to complain of than thou- 
sands of women who live under the same roof as their 
husbands, but miles away from them. It was a si/ie (jua 
non that Josephine still lived with him. 

His victim struggled, but yielded. The money was paid, 
and Josephine induced to return under certain conditions. 
It was the keenest cut of all, the bitterest part of Philip 
Bourchier’s punishment, that he was forced for the sake of 
silence to urge his daughter to return to the man lie hated 
— to the husband who had in so short a time proved be- 
yond a doubt his utter worthlessness and villainy. He 
made her promise that at the first sign of a revival of hos- 
tilities on the part of her husband she would leave him 
and tell him to do his worst. 

At the end of the third year matters were much as this 
treaty arranged them — Mr. Bourchier had kept his part of 
the compact ; Digby had not exactly broken his. Josephine 
was living with her husband, yet meeting and speaking 
only when obliged to do so. She did not fear him. Her 
sentiments toward him were those of utter contempt ; and 
fear and contempt do not assimilate. She was not the most 
unhappy woman in the world, if she was the most hope- 
less. She had several friends of her own, who pitied her 
and sympathized with her. She went her way, and let her 
husband go his way without cpiestion or reproach. He 
laid no commands upon her, except that he would not 
allow her to leave him for too long a time. He could not 
permit the lever which moved Mr. Bourchier t(3 be out of 
liis sight, save for a brief interval. He had needed to use 
it once or twice as it was/or to threaten to use it. Tlie 
threat had never failed, and any extra sums he wanted had 
been forthcoming. 

Recently he had been thinking a great deal abo»t Fran- 
ces. Fie guessed the time was at hand when she would 
appear in public ; and, upon seeing the announcement of 
Mdlle. Francesca’s coming debiit^ concluded that Frances 
and the new singer were identical. Meeting with her was 
a danger he must guard against ; although he felt a long- 
ing to see her, to hear her once more. He dared not hope 
she would forget him. He knew that, if chance brought 
them face to face, she would insist upon an explanation os 


A CARD/.VAL S/.V. 


131 

to the manner of her father’s death. This explanation 
would entail others which would be embarrassing to Mr. 
Digby Bourchier. So all he could do was to shun her. 
It was not a difficult task. Except in the street, tlicy were 
unlikely to meet. His companions and friends were not 
of the class which entertains prime donne. For in late 
years his tastes had deteriorated, or rather he had thrown 
off the assumption of higher things. At first his villainy 
had an amount of vanity in it. He wanted to use the lever 
he possessed to raise himself and make a figure in the 
world. The enmity he instinctively felt toward Allan 
Bourchier was clinclied by his flat refusal to propose him 
for a club of which he was a member. The one really re- 
fined taste the man possessed, music, was rapidly leaving 
him. He cared little for it — his voice was now only heard 
raised in a drinking song, for the delectation of boon com- 
panions, both male and female — for he drank hard now, 
and united other vices with that of intemperance. Is it a 
wonder his wife’s feeling was one of sheer contempt — that 
she led her hopeless life, and took what pleasure she could 
find in the society of lier own friends ? Poor child ! she 
was now little more than twenty-one — her whole future 
spoiled and closed in by the one foolish act of a girl. 

As to the rest of her family, Mr. Bourchier had for a 
long time been in bad health. I should be wrong in say- 
ing that it was caused by remorse for his crime. There 
must be many a murderer in the world who eats, drinks, 
sleeps as well as you or 1 do. He had. done the deed in 
cold blood — had done it to benefit himself and his chil- 
dren. If for a while his victim’s face haunted his dreams, 
it began at last to fade from them. Had George Manders 
not made his discovery, and used it for his own ends, it is 
probable that after a time Philip Bourchier would liave 
ceased to think of his crime— would even, when all danger 
of discovery seemed past, have rejoiced that he had found 
the opportunity, and had been able to nerve himself to 
establish his right to his inheritance by one desperate but 
successful stroke. No, it was not remorse that made liim 
an old man before his time. It was fear — it was the sword 
which the impostor held always over his head. It was 
regret at the price paid as hush-money — Josephine’s hap- 
piness. It was dread lest the sword might some day fall 
— it was the worry of having to keep up a continual fight 
with the wielder of it — to dare him do his worst, then to 
tremble lest he should be taken at his word— to pay the 


13 ^ 


A CARDI.VAL SIN. 


blackmail, yet strive to keep the tribute down to a reason- 
able amount. 

It was the horror of thinking that some day his wife and 
the children he loved might be forced to look upon him as 
a murderer. Surely, leaving what remorse there might be 
out of the question, Philip Bourchier found enough in 
these things to break his health. 

Sleeplessness was the root of the evil. Without artifi- 
cial aid he could not sleep ; and a man must sleep, die, or 
go mad. He did not resign himself to being a thrall to 
the chloral fiend without many a struggle. But what did 
they avail ? Let him lie down and say, I will wait sleep 
until she comes. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts came, but 
not sleep. Then he must give in and swallow a dose of 
the deadly drug. Only his wife knew what a quantity of 
it lie had been taking during the past months. They tell 
me chloral destroys the body, but not the mind. It would, 
perhaps, have been well for Philip Bourchier had its effects 
been equal as to. each. He was a man of strong will ; he 
fought hard against his master. He plunged. into politics 
in a way that steady Conservative squires are seldom in 
the habit of doing. He sought society. It was all of no 
avail. Then he gave up the struggle, and delivered him- 
self over to his fate. Soon a distaste to the society of all 
save those who were nearest and dearest began to mani- 
fest itself. This interfered with his Parliamentary duties. 
There was also a need of curtailment of expenditure — 
Digby’s demands pressed heavily upon him. He applied 
for the Chiltern Hundreds, gave up his town house, and 
went down to Redhills to spend the remainder of his days 
in seclusion. Ah ! it was a bad hour for Pliilip Bourchier 
when he drove that man from Brackley to Redton. 

And his wife ? She was what she, had always been — a 
true, faithful, suitable helpmeet. Her husband was her 
god. Her life is summed up in that. In health, in sick- 
ness, in riches, in poverty, in good repute or in bad repute, 
he was her lord and master. Could a wife be more To 
her there was nothing visible save failing health — acceler- 
ated, it may be, by Josephine’s hasty and ill-judged mar- 
riage. This was the only thing Mrs. Bourchier could 
blame herself about — the only time she liad acted, or re- 
frained from acting, without her conduct having been reg- 
ulated by her husband. She wept and regretted, but as 
Josephine was so unliappy, she forgave. 

And Mabel? Mabel had married well and suitably. 


A CARDIXAL S/N. 


133 

Not the Honorable John, who was urginof a hopeless suit, 
but the representative of an old county family — not a 
Westshire family, but a Midland counties one. As her 
husband had large estates, and would succeed to a title if 
a sickly life failed, Mabel’s prospects were very bright. 
The contrast between her lot and her sister’s was bound to 
occur to Josephine. But Mabel loved her as of old, and 
Josephine’s happiest hours were those she spent with her 
at Shortlands. 

And Allan, whose existence was only hinted at in the 
earlier chapters? He had finished his university career — 
had taken a fair degree, and was now enjoying life as the 
heir to a fine estate was entitled to enjoy it. He also came 
into money when of age — so Was, if he chose to be so, in- 
dependent. It not being a Bourchier tradition for the heir 
to enter any profession, Allan Avas an idle man — if a young 
fellow of twenty-four can ever be idle. He was fond of 
travel, fond of sport, fond of art, and many other things, so 
that his life was a very enjoyable one. He had chambers 
in town — for Mr. Bourchier had no town house now — but 
he spent a good deal of his time at Redhills. On every 
occasion lately he fancied his father was growing to lean 
more and more upon him. He felt much troubled and 
very anxious as he saw how prematurely old his father was 
growing. As he dated this declining health from Joseph- 
ine’s marriage, his feelings toward Digby may be ima- 
gined. 

And Kenneth, the youngest, was just thinking of Ox- 
ford. Whether his fate was to be the church or the bar 
was not yet decided. 

Now this is the position of the Redhills family when 
Frances returned to England, and, as Flerr Kaulitz pre- 
dicted, took the world by storm. 


CHAPTER XH. 

IN THE GREEN-ROOM. 

Allan Bourchier was lounging in the smoking-room of 
his club. He had dined there, and tvas debating what he 
should do with the remainder of the evening. He had no 
particular engagement, so he half formed a resolution to 
look in at one of the theatres. He was not a great patron 


134 


A CAJ^DINAL S/.V. 


of the drama. He was fonder of real men and women— 
real events and actions. That was why he liked London 
better than tlie country, barring the outdoor exercise. He 
liked to feel the surge of life around him ; to live in the 
whirl of busy men. Sometimes he regretted he had not 
a career to run— a fortune to make. He intended sooner 
or later to enter the struggle. He hoped some day to be 
in Parliament — as a working, not an ornamental member ; 
but his time had not yet come. He was thinking of all 
these things as he sat in the smoking-room. Thinking of 
the great city around him, of the millions who filled it. 
Then from London his thoughts went over to Paris, from 
Paris to Dieppe, and after leaving Dieppe they stayed for 
an indefinite time on board the Channel boat, and puzzled 
and puzzled as to who the girl whose image filled them 
could be. Somehow he could never forget that face. 
Every line, every feature, every change from grave to gay, 
dwelt with him. He was now beginning to despair of 
ever meeting his unknown companion. Weeks had elapsed, 
but although he had spent nearly all the time in London, 
they had not met. Oh, if he had only asked her name ! 
So he sat dreaming and bringing that perfect, classical face 
through the smoke-wreaths he sent up to the ceiling. 

He was still dreaming when a hand fell on his shoulder. 
Coming back to earth, he saw the gay face of a friend, 
Ernest Pierrepont ; a young fellow — younger than Allan 
— very rich, rather dissipated, but a favorite with all who 
knew him. A boy who would be spoiled or made by Lon- 
don life, as chance might be. He was not spoiled yet, or 
he would not have been an intimate friend of Allan’s. 

“All in the clouds — the smoke-clouds — Allan ?” asked 
Pierrepont. 

“ I was wondering how I should spend the evening.” 

“ I envy you. My fate is decided. Tea, music, and 
long whist.” 

“The two first, if good, may atone for the last.” 

“ Nothing can atone for it — except duty. I am going to 
see my godmother.” 

“ Quite right. Mine is in the country, or I would do the 
same.” 

“I wish mine were there, too. But she prefers London, 
and insists on seeing me occasionally. I tell you what — a 
godmother with thirty thousand pounds to leave is ^n 
awful nuisance.” 

“ Depends how she leaves it.” 


A CAjRDJXAL S/N’. 


J35 


“That’s it. It’s hardly enough to struggle for ; but too 
much to neglect. So I must go. What did you say you 
intended doing ? ” 

“ i hat’s exactly what I can’t determine. Shall I come 
with you and say a good wo]*d to the old lady, whoever 
she is ? ” 

“ No. Friendship has its limits. But I will be generous 
to you in gratitude for the offer. Take my bone and go 
and hear Francesca. I intended to go for the first act.” 

“ Is she so good, then ?” . 

“Good — she is superb! She is lovely I Didn’t you see 
her Lucia?” 

“No, I was engaged.” 

“ Go t!ien, now— and in your transports think of me.” 

He tossed tlie ivory ticket across to Allan, who thanked 
him, and glancing at the clock, said he ought to start at 
once to enjoy the fuil benefit to which it entitled him. He 
had, of course, heard a great deal about the new singer. 
He had read the glowing accounts, the favorable critiques. 
He had resolved to liear her, but as yet had not done so. 
Allan was fond of the opera, so he hurried away from his 
club, and reached the theatre just as the overture com- 
menced. To-night Mdlle. Francesca made her first appear- 
ance as Marguerite. Her former successes had fully 
awakened the public to her great merits, and no singer 
had ever faced a more crowded or more enthusiastic house. 
As she appeared on the stage, Allan, who until that 
moment had been wearing a quiet look of anticipatory 
enjoyment, could scarcely help starting to his feet, and in 
a moment he knew that the Marguerite, the new pri?iia 
donna^ whose name was in every mouth, was the beautiful 
girl with whom he had crossed the Channel. 

Now he understood what her words meant. She hoped 
he would often see and hear her. He ought to have 
known the meaning at once. See and hear her 1 As he 
sat and listened to her magnificent voice, as he saw her 
graceful form, noted every action, every attitude, every 
look — found fresh charms every time she came on the 
stage, the young man thought that the whole of his future 
life would be worthless unless he spent the greater portion 
of it in seeing and hearing Mdlle Francesca. 

To say he was enraptured does not meet the case. He 
was hopelessly, irrevocably in love. He had loved her 
from the first — that w^as now clear enough to him. So he 
sat in his stall gazing at her with all his eyes ; listening with 


5 ^ 


A CAIWIxVAL Sjy. 


all his ears ; longing to do something to attract her atten- 
tion ; wondering if a great actress in the midst of her pa- 
thos and simulated joy and anguish ever recognized one of 
the audience her art held spell-bound. Once he fancied hei' 
eyes met his — that they singled him out by a slight gleam 
of recognition, but of this he could not be sure. He could 
only hope it was so ; and invoked blessings upon the head 
of Pierrepont’s aged godmother, whose liking for her 
graceless godson’s company had been the primary cause 
of Allan Bourchier solving the mystery which surrounded 
his unknown friend. 

He left the theatre and walked home in a delicious kind 
of trance. Heaven had opened before him. He iiad 
found her. He loved her. To this fact he resigned him- 
self without dispute. But what was he to do .? People 
may see heaven without being able to climb to it. Many 
a young man may ardently desire to make the acquaint- 
ance of a new prima donna without that boon being ac- 
corded to him — and as many more may wish to win her 
love without doing so. Very likely, had Allan seen her 
for the first time that night, he would have loved her only 
as we all love great singers and actresses — on the stage ; 
but their first meeting had been in private life ; it was the 
woman, not the actress, who had first aw^akened the inter- 
est he felt. Beautiful as he saw her in the midst of stage 
accessories ; marvellous as w^as the power of her voice to 
move the heart ; to him she w’as yet more beautiful in 
every-day attire, talking and acting like an ordinary mor- 
tal ; braving the keen wind w’hich tossed and played wdth 
one or two truant locks of bright-brown hair. No, it w^as 
not the stage-queen he loved ; it was the fair, bright, but 
stately woman he had met. 

He even regretted the eminence of her position. ^Not 
from any feeling that the heir to an old family should not 
take a wife from the stage. He had no prejudice of this 
kind, or if he had it went overboard in an instant. In his 
way he was a strong-minded young man. He determined 
without more ado that Mdlle. Francesca w^as fit to grace a 
tiu'one, and that Allan Bourchier was over head and ears 
in love with her. All that could be done was to try wdth 
might and main to wdn her love. So dreaming his dreams 
— now exulting in thoughts of success — now desponding 
as the difficulties of the undertaking rose before him, he 
sat very, very late into the night planning and plotting how 
to make the first advances. 


A CAA'D/iVAL S/AT. 


^37 


“ How did you like Marguerite ?” asked Pierrepont the 
next day. “Is she not divine ? “ 

“ Yes,” replied Allan, so quietly that his friend wondered 
at his want of appreciation. The fact was he could not 
trust himself to express the praise he would have bestowed. 

Do you know any one who could present me to her ?” 
asked Allan ; for Pierrepont knew many people. 

Struck, eh ? Well, 1 don’t wonder. Everybody is ask- 
ing the same question. I wish I did.” 

“Wiioisshe?” 

“No one knows. Some say American.” 

“Yes, I know that much.” 

“ Then you should be content ; you know more than 
rnost of us.” 

“ I wonder if Sinclair knows her,” continued Allan, 
naming a well-known composer with whom he stood on 
terms of friendship. 

“ Of course he does — if not he can introduce himself 
first. He’s your man, Allan. Geniuses can dispense with 
the usual forms of society. I wish I were a genius.” 

“ It’s foolish to wish for impossibilities,” said Allan. 

Yet, was he not wishing for an impossibility ? It might 
be so ; but he could not help his fate ; and at four-and- 
twenty there is little a man thinks beyond the bounds of 
possibility. At that age one is not prone to lack courage. 

At first Allan had some wild idea of writing to Frances 
and asking permission to call upon her, but he shrank 
from this course. He was not a distinguished man whom 
the artist miglit be pleased to meet. He was simply an 
English gentleman, and he felt he could scarcely base his 
claim to her favorable consideration either on the fact that 
he had been her fellow-traveller for a few hours or that he 
was deeply in love with her. The latter would be even a 
weaker plea than the former ; and, knowing the world, or 
the London world, Allan frowned as he thought that by 
this time many had told her or shown her the same thing. 
No, he must wait until he could find some one who could 
present him, or until they met together under some friend’s 
roof. It was the woman, not the singer, he was seeking to 
make acquaintance with. Meanwhile he could at least go 
and hear her every time she appeared in public. That was 
his undeniable riglit and privilege, of which he partook to 
such an extent, that for the next fortnight whenever Mdlle. 
Francesca charmed an audience tliere was one young fel- 
low in it who listened as though he would monopolize all 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


her magic sounds, and who gazed so ardently at the singer 
that had she been aware of it she might have been greatly 
discomposed. 

Frances had now appeared several times in grand operas, 
and was announced as one of the great attractions at an 
important concert — her first appearance in England except 
on the stage. Allan Bourchier was in attendance as usual. 
So regular had he been in putting in an appearance when- 
ever she sang that Pierrepont bantered him unmercifully 
on the devotion he displayed to the new star — the more so 
as he found he had not, as yet, succeeded in getting the 
coveted introduction. 

The concert was held in one of the largest halls in Lon- 
don. There were several queens and kings of song there, 
so the honors were divided. Every queen had her sub- 
jects, and when each reigned so successfully the palm 
could be adjudged to none. In the first part Francesca 
sang one song and in a duet. To say the least, she was as 
enthusiastically received as her contemporary sovereigns. 
Had the sovereignty been dependent on personal appear- 
ance, no doubt would have been entertained as to whom it 
should have been adjudged. Her beauty shone out con- 
spicuous. Her rivals were as candles before the sun. She 
needed no arch gestures, no pretty and petulant by-play, 
to impress her audience in her favor. She looked what 
she was, whether on or off the stage — a queen among 
women. Tier dress, one of the before-mentioned Parisian 
masterpieces, suited her exactly. Let me attempt to de- 
scribe it. 

A rich satin — a lemon-colored satin ; the front trimmed 
profusely with white lace and pearl embroidery. It was 
after the fashion of the day, tight to the figure, and let 
who will complain of the trying style, Mdlle. Francesca 
had no occasion to fear as to the symmetry of the form it 
shadowed forth. The skirt terminated in a train of por- 
tentous length ; the bodice was cut square, and revealed 
the dazzling whiteness of her neck, on which rested a dia- 
mond pendant, attached to a necklace, consisting of a sin- 
gle row of large pearls. On one shoulder was a large 
bunch of dark purple pansies. The contrast of these with 
the lemon-colored dress had a striking and admirable 
effect. Her earrings were diamond solitaires, while other 
diamonds were arranged in cunning places in her thick, 
soft, brown hair. Gloves, the exact color of her dress and 
fastened by a number of buttons, covered her rounded 


^39 


A CA RDIIVAL SIN. 

arms — alas for the exigencies of fashion ! — hiding their 
beauty and whiteness. If any lady who reads this feels 
any doubt about the ravishing effect of this triumph of 
miilinery, let her order a similar dress and she will not be 
disappointed with the result — especially if she be as beau- 
tiful as Mdlle. Francesca. Frances was one of those 
women who seem to be especially designed to wear 
jewelry. There are some hands on which the smallest 
circlet of gold looks more than is necessary ; others who 
may cover every finger to the knuckle with gems, 3"et ap- 
pear in faultless taste. Simple as Frances was in hcr 
habits, her style was the grand style — rich clothing be- 
came her. The diamonds on her neck, her arms, and in 
her ears seemed in their proper place. It was not that 
she needed such decorations, but they suited her ; and 
knowing the value of outward display with the public, she 
had invested a portion of her capital in precious stones. 
Altogether her appearance and attire were admired nearly 
as much as her singing. 

Perhaps Allan was the only man in the room who did 
not appreciate those gems. Somehow, diamonds on the 
stage are suspicious possessions. People wonder if they 
are presents^ — if so, by whom given, and why ? Specula- 
tions of this kind have the effect of investing the wearer 
with a piquant interest. Even Allan had an idea that few 
artists bought their own adornments ; and although he 
could not believe that a girl with that noble face, those 
clear, steadfast gray eyes, would take gifts of such a de- 
scription from any one, he would have been much happier 
had he known those sparkling stones had been purchased 
and paid for by her own proper money. 

He was quite resolved that, when he made her his wife, 
those presents should be returned to their respective 
donors. He was a determined and sanguine young man, 
looking into the future hopefully, and with the confidence 
of youth. 

Allan’s friend, Mr. Alfred Sinclair, the well-known com- 
poser, was at tlie concert ; he had enjoyed the first part 
greatly, and expected to enjoy the second part even more, 
as the programme for this was of a more popular nature, 
and included two of his own songs. Mr. Sinclair had that 
morning finished a very exquisite setting to some very 
sentimental words, and was anxious that Mdlle. Francesca 
should take up ” the song, as it is called. Only com- 
posers and music publishers know what a prima donna 


140 


A CA/?DJjVAL ShV. 


‘‘ taking xip ” a ballad means, or how by such a kindly yet 
well-paid act on her part the sale of a great many thousand 
copies is assured. Mr. Sinclair had naturally made Mdlle. 
Francesca’s acquaintance, and was now wishing to make 
an appointment with her, to show her his melodious effort 
and to enlist her sympathies on behalf of this tuneful off* 
spring of his genius. So, in the interval between the parts, 
he was hurrying to the green-room to prefer his request. 
A hand placed on his shoulder arrested his progress ; turn- 
ing round he saw the tall form and pleasant face of Allan 
Bourchier. 

“ Oh, how d’ye do, Bourchier ? ” he said — adding quickly, 
“excuse me, I am in a hurry.” 

He saw that Allan had something to say to him. 

“ Where are you going in such haste ? ” 

“ I only want to say a few words to Francesca.” 

Sinclair meant no disrespect, singers being usually 
spoken of by their surnames pure and simple, without 
prefix. 

“You know her, then ?” asked Allan. 

“ Of course I do, my dear fellow— why shouldn’t I ? ” 

Mr. Sinclair’s accent implied that it would be absurd to 
suppose that any singer could rise to eminence without, as 
a necessity, being well acquainted with a person of such 
distinction in the musical world as himself. 

“ Do you know her well enough to give me an intro- 
duction ; and, if so, will you do it, if I ask it as a particu- 
lar favor ? ” 

Sinclair shook his head. 

“ I can’t say I should like: to presume on our acquaint- 
ance, which is purely artistic, as far as that. You sec, 
Bourchier, you’re not a poet, or a painter, or a musician.” 

“But I am very anxious to know her.” 

“ So is every one. Better wait until you meet her at the 
house of one of your grand friends. It will be better taste.” 

Allan felt annoyed, but dare not show it, at the risk of 
offending Sinclair, who was of a choleric nature. 

“ Will you ask her permission ? ” he said. “ There can 
be no harm in that.” 

“What shall I say? Mr. Allan Bourchier, a member of 
a rich old county family, wants to offer up his homage 
personally ? ” 

“No. Say that the gentleman who travelled with her 
from Dieppe to Newhaven is anxious to be presented in 
due form. You might do this much for me, Sinclair.” 


^ CARDINAL SIN 


141 


Of course, I will,” answered Sinclair, who was glad to 
oblige every one, particularly young men who moved in 
good society. “You wait here; I’ll be back in a few 
minutes.” 

He plunged through a door which led, it seemed, under 
the stage, and Allan waited hopefully. That dingy, painted 
door might have been the gate of heaven for him. Pres- 
ently Sinclair returned. 

“All right ; come along,” he said. 

“ What did she say ? ” asked Allan. 

“Said yes, of course ; or I shouldn’t have come back for 
you.” 

“ Nothing else ? ” 

“ No, but she smiled. By Jove, wliat a wonderful smile 
that girl has ! ” 

Allan, trying to look self-possessed and at his ease, with 
a beating heart followed his conductor. 

The “green room” either of the theatre or the concert-hall 
is, to a layman, always invested with a kind of mysterious 
awe — a feeling which has been sometimes known to sur- 
round it even as long as to the third visit paid to its sacred 
precincts. It is when one is about to be introduced to the 
temporary abode of those radiant and gifted creatures who 
ravish eyes and ears by their performances, that one feels 
most acutely the insignificance of one’s own station in life. 
Who is he that he should dare to tread the hallowed 
ground, should presume to breathe the same air as those 
whose names are world renowned ? Then it is that a pri- 
vate gentleman of modest disposition wishes he had writ- 
ten a successful book, painted a grand picture, crossed the 
channel in a balloon, been the hero of four divorce cases, 
invented a patent medicine, or, in fact, done anything to 
lend his name enough lustre to justify his intrusion. It is 
only when he begins to realize the fact that the thrilling 
sopranos, the ricli contraltos, the sentimental tenors, and 
the massive baritones arc in private, or even semi-private, 
life, very much like ordinary men and women, that he 
feels at all at his ease. Alas ! when this takes place — 
when that comfortable state of mind begins — very often 
the attraction, the fascination, the mystery of the green- 
room is past and another illusion gone over to the majority. 

Allan would no doubt have crossed the threshold hum- 
bly and reverently, but his companion, who was at home 
in such places, entered very quickly, and as one whose 
right was indisputable ; closing the door at once behind 


342 


A CARD/.VAL sry. 


him to shut out the singer’s foe, the draught. The sight 
which awaited the visitor was of a very ordinary descrip- 
tion. Some haif-a-dozen ladies, their gorgeous attire hid- 
den by thick cloaks or jackets, sat in various parts of the 
room apparently doing nothing. About the same number 
of men were scattered about. These were the artistes. 
They did not appear to converse much. Probably tliey 
all met so often they could find little to talk about. One 
or two visitors were talking to their tuneful friends, and 
Allan noticed that the great tenor of the evening was 
speaking in a mixture of English and Italian to Frances, 
who sat in one corner of the room. Signor Celicour was 
a dark-eyed, dark-mustachcd man with a voice like a 
nightingale ; and seeing how he was engaged, Allan felt a 
sensation something like hatred toward the good-tempered 
Italian, who, by the by, had a wife and eight children, 
whom he idolized. However, in spite of his natural an- 
noyance, Allan could not help feeling grateful at the 
promptitude with which Signor Celicour bowed and 
moved out of the way as he followed his sponsor to Fran- 
ces’ corner, and was properly presented. 

The girl gave him her hand, while an amused smile 
played over her lips. “ I am glad to see you,” she said. 

I told you we should meet again. It was presumptuous 
to discount success — was it not ?” 

She was so natural that Allan felt at home with her at 
once. They might have been on the steamboat, with the 
wind blowing, and the merry sea dancing around. Per- 
haps he wished they were. 

He told her how astonished, how delighted he had been 
to recognize her, and thanked her for allowing Sinclair to 
conduct him to lier presence, 

“Not at all. I am pleased to be able to thank you 
properly for the care you took of me across the channel. 
Now sit down, and let us talk. My next song is a lon.c>- 
way off.” 

He sat on the red-covered bench beside her. He was only 
too glad to find that she greeted him like an old friend. 

“What a success you have been!” he said. “I must 
congratulate you.” 

“ Thank you. I have been very fortunate and people 
very kind.” 

“What a career before you ! I little thought to whom 
I was talking when first we met. Yet you seem little 
changed,” - 


A CAND/xVA/. .SV.-K 


M3 

I am not changed,” said Frances, simply. 

But your life must be changed.” 

“It was what I always looked forw'ard to — what I studied 
and wished for.” 

“ Do you like it ? ” 

“ I love my art. I love to stand on the stage and know 
tnat I am moving people’s minds. You were pleased, I 
could see.” 

“You saw me, then?” Allan could scarcely restrain 
siiowing his delight in his voice. 

“ Of course, I saw you — several times. I passed you 
once in the street ; just before I appeared first. I had a 
great mind to send you a ticket.” 

“ I wish you had. Why did you not ? ” 

“For several reasons — the most weighty of which was 
not knowing your name.” 

“You know it now. May I hope you will remember 
it ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, it is a pretty name— something like my own ; 
I shall remember it.” 

He thought she meant a pretty name, even as Francesca 
was a pretty name. The best-constructed sentences some- 
times bear two meanings. 

“You have plenty of friends now, I suppose?” he con- 
tinued. 

“ I have made many acquaintances, but as yet few 
friends. Friend is a title not to be lightly bestowed.” 

“ Great honors should be hard to gain— you are right.” 
Allan spoke very earnestly and seriously ; so much so that 
the girl could not help giving him a grateful look. He 
was not beginning badly if his wish was to gain her friend- 
ship. He had paid her as yet no absurd compliments on 
her beauty or her voice. He appeared to take it for 
granted that she knew the merits of each, and did not 
want to be told them ; also tliat she knew that he appre- 
ciated them ; so he simply talked to her as a gentleman 
might talk to any lady in whose company he felt pleasure. 
Had he known the girl’s character exactly he could not 
have commenced better. 

On her part she felt a decided interest in her companion. 
His manner stood out in favorable contrast to that of sev- 
eral whose acquaintance she had recently made ; for a 
prima donna cannot live quite such a secluded life as other 
persons may. Introductions are inevitable, and the man 
of high rank Who wishes to pay his homage to a particu- 


144 


A CARDIXA/. SIN’. 


larly bright Operatic Star cannot in policy be denied. So, 
many came and paid their homage ; and judging her by 
others of her kind, thought tlie greater amount of incense 
they burned the more acceptable it would be. They were 
mistaken. Not that she was indifferent to praise. Given 
by a Gounod, a Wagner, a Rubinstein, or anyone whose 
name stamped the approbation with worth, it would have 
been delicious to her. To others she was indifferent. She 
built her hopes as to the reality and stability of her suc- 
cessTipon the general verdict given by her audiences. To 
the single voice she was careless. Allan had avoided this 
common error — error as far as Frances was concerned— 
intuitively. So much the better for him. 

“ You won’t at this rate see much of the English green 
fields you talked about,” resumed Allan. “ Perhaps your 
wish for them is departing ?” 

“ No. I shall run down somewhere into the country as 
soon as I can find time.” 

“ I like London best,” said Allan. 

“ I am growing to like it — too much, I fear, sometimes.” 

“ Then you arc happy in your profession ? — that’s the 
great thing.” 

“ Yes ; I am very happy in a way. Of course there 
must be annoyances in everyone’s life. I can’t expect to 
be exempted.” 

“Tell me some of yours. I fancy you would bear a 
great many without showing their effects.” 

He was answered by an illustration. It was th6 turn of 
a great singer to gratify the audience. She rose and threw 
off her wrap, and as she turned to depart for the upper 
regions flounced the train of her dress and the dust it had 
picked up in an unmistakably contemptuous manner, if 
not exactly over Mdlle. Francesca, certainly at her. The 
action spoke volumes. It was an insult which could only 
be borne in silence. A philosophical mind might have 
perhaps regarded it as a compliment, as it showed that the 
songstress who had so long reigned undisputed had now 
encountered a rival who came near enough to be worthy 
of her enmity. Nevertheless, to a woman the act must 
bear its sting. The blood mounted to the girl’s pale cheek, 
and Allan felt he should like to treat the spiteful antago- 
nist as she deserved. 

Some few of those who saw the action had the bad taste 
to smile and titter, but one of the ladies sitting not far 
from Frances leaned across toward her and patted her arm 


A CARDINAL ShV. 


kindly. She was a woman now past her first prime, but 
dear to every professional heart for her uniform good 
temper. A fine motherly woman, v'ho had done great 
tilings in her day, but was now past representing youthful 
heroines. 

“ Nevare mind, my dear,” she said. “ Tink of de bring- 
ings up.” 

Ves, the “ bringings up.” For the scornful queen had 
been brought up in squalor, dirt, and poverty somewhere 
in Moldo-Wallachia or Rournania. Then a lucky seeker 
had found the jewel of a voice she possessed, and in a few 
years she wore satin and velvet instead of rags, and sov- 
ereigns had vied with each other in paying tribute to her 
powers. She was clever, and endeavored to adapt herself 
to changed circumstances. In this she was fairly success- 
ful ; the two things she could not restrain were her tem- 
per and — horrible to state — an inordinate affection for a 
peculiarly obnoxious cheese which was indigenous to her 
native land, and in the days of her childhood formed a 
staple article of her diet. Both weaknesses rendered her 
at times less attractive to her numerous admirers than she 
might have been could she have conquered them entirely. 

So Francesca thought of the “ bringings up,” shrugged 
her shoulders, and was comforted. 

“I suppose that is one of your annoyances — jealousy ?” 
whispered Allan. 

“ One must expect it and put up with it,” said Frances. 
“ Some are kind, some are not. I only hope I may never 
feci jealous of a new-comer and try to make her un- 
happy.” 

“ That you never will, I am sure,” said Allan, softly. 

It was soon her turn to take the stage. He followed her 
to the bottom of the stairs which led up to it, and listened 
to her singing above his head, delighted to hear the storm 
of applause which rose from all parts of the house after 
her song. She came down smiling, followed by the ac- 
companist. Still the applause continued, so she had to 
turn and appear again. There was little room for turning 
at the b(atom of the stairs, and her maid waited there to 
perform the simple operation of rearranging her train as 
she went up. Allan noticed it. She came down again, and 
was again called for. “ Let me do it,” he said, eagerly, as 
the maid bent over her mistress. Frances heard his words, 
she knew his hand took the hem of her robe and put it in 
place, and she. knew she blushed a little as she returned to 


146 


A CAJ^D/ATAL SI AT. 


him after another acknowledgment of her recall. She 
could not help it — but it did not much matter — it was 
natural slie should return from victory flushed. 

Then Allan thought it time to say adieu. He felt very 
happy. Even the diamonds did not distress him. She 
shook hands with him cordially. 

‘‘You will let me call upon you ? ” he asked. 

He spoke quietly, and she little knew what her answer 
meant to him. 

“ Certainly,” she said, frankly, “ if you like to take the 
trouble.” 

“Where do you live ?*’ 

“ I have just commenced housekeeping on my own ac- 
count. Drayton Villa, St. John’s Road.” 

“ What is the best time to call ? ” 

“At any reasonable time. I am usually at home unless 
professionally engaged.” 

“ I shall come very soon,” said Allan. 

She smiled, but offered no objection, and he left, one of 
the happiest young fellows in London. Had he not seen 
her, talked with her, touched the hem of her dress, found 
her, moreover, kind, frank and natural ? Certainly not 
upset by her great success. It seemed to him that she 
miglit be won. The only fear he had was that her art 
might prove a barrier — not as far as he was concerned, but 
on her part. Would she ever consent in the first flush of 
her triumph to give her love and bind herself forever to a 
simple country gentleman ? He began to wish she was an 
ordinary creature, of his own rank in life ; yet blamed 
liimself for the wish. No, let him do his best to win this 
glorious woman, give up, if necessary, every tradition for 
her sake, mould his life to hers, think her successes his 
own, with, perhaps, a glimmer of a future day when, tired 
of triumph, she would quit the stage and rule at Redhills 
as much a queen as she ruled in large towns. He was 
very deeply in love, and tormented with the usual hopes 
and fears, but of all the imaginary obstacles he raised 
there was nothing to be named in the same breath with the 
real but as yet unknown, unsuspected bar that lay between 
him and his love. 

Although Frances had, by no means, fallen into the same 
state after two interviews wdth Allan, she was at least in- 
terested in him. She was glad to have met him again — 
glad, if she had cared to cross-question herself, that he 
had asked permission to call upon her. She saw no rear 


A CAKDIxVAL SIN. 


147 


son wliy she should not find a friend, and a sympathetic 
one, ill Allan Bourchier. Most young jieople are great 
believers in platonic affection ; as they grow older they 
get wiser. 

Some few days after Allan’s introduction to her she was 
on the stage thrilling her audience by her rendering of 
one of the greatest songs ever written, when suddenly, and 
while in the middle of her vocal and dramatic effort, she 
saw far away in front of her the face of a man. Even in 
the semi-obscurity, in the back of one of the topmost tiers 
of scats, she recognized it in a moment, and realized, as 
by inspiration, that the man knew she had seen him. 
There may have been a gasp of surprise which marred 
an upper note, and made a critic in the stalls shake his 
head ominously, but that was all ; the actress triumphed, 
and except for that slight flaw never had the music been 
better sung. Before she left the stage she noticed that 
the face had disappeared. This showed her she had not 
been misled by any fancied resemblance ; showed her she 
was right in thinking that her momentary glance of rec- 
ognition had been detected ; showed her that George 
Manders was in London, and that he wished to avoid her. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

WOOED AND WON 

Mr. Trenfield’s clerks were all hard at work at the 
broad, double-topped mahogany desk in the outer office. 
As a rule they did not take much notice of the arrival and 
departure of clients. It was the junior clerk’s province to 
receive them, announce them, and show them into the in- 
ner office. The copying clerks felt little interest in their 
business until it arranged itself on sheets of draft paper, 
covered with strange abbreviations, erasures, alterations, 
and interlineations, all of which it was their duty to de- 
cipher and embody in a beautifully-written document. 
They were hard-working men, who began writing at nine 
o’clock with the regularity of machines. With the excep- 
tion that during the morning they could look forward to 
lunch-time, and during the afternoon know that every 
folio they penned brought them nearer to the hour when 
the underground railway or the 'bus might take them to 


148 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


their homes, their office life was little different fn 11 the 
life of a machine. Still the entrance of such a t stable 
client as Mdile. Francesca made an unparalleled sen>,ation. 
Pens were thrust into ears and heads craned over the 
wooden railing, or eyes peered through the bars which 
surrounded the desk, and gave the writers semi-retire- 
ment. Indeed, as the green-baize door which opened to 
Mr. Trenfield’s sanctum closed behind the girl, the gentle- 
men in the outer office permitted themselves a moment’s 
leisure for desultory conversation. 

“My eye!” said -Timmins, a gentleman with a very 
fierce appearance, caused by his carrying a red-ink pen 
behind one ear and a black-ink one behind the other ; 
“ she is a screamer —that Francesca ! " 

“ She’s my bow idea of a woman,” said Mr. Green, who 
was very genteel, and scorned slang. 

“Seen her in Lucia?” asked Mr. Timmins, with the air 
of a critic. 

He called it Lusia, but meant well. Mr. Green was 
kind enough to correct him. 

“Yes ; I was enraptured. They tell me,” continued Mr. 
Green, “ she’ll be getting the matter of a hundred and 
fifty a night soon.” 

“By jove ! a girl like that In one night to make as 
much as we make by sweating all the year. Wish I could 
pick up a girl like that and marry her.” 

“Better ask this one, Timmins,” said Green. “She 
won’t refuse you, if half your tales are true ; ” for Timmins 
always had some adventure to relate about a perfect lady 
who had shown him great kindness. Then the machinery 
resumed work and made up for lost time. 

Mr. Trenfield greeted his client cordially. Charlie, who 
was in the room, blushed visibly and guiltily. He had 
been thinking of her all the morning, and felt as if he had 
been caught in the act. 

“And what brings you to Bedford Row?” asked Mr. 
Trenfield. 

“ Manders is in London. I saw liim last night.” 

“Shall I send Charlie away?” asked Mr. Trenfield, 
thinking her business might be private. 

“Oh, no. I’ve nothing to say but what he may hear.” 

“Well, where did you see the man?” 

“ In the theatre. He knew I saw him, and went away 
at once.” 

“ Was he alone ? ” . . 


.i CAA'D/XA/. S/A\ 


149 


“I suppose so. I saw him speaking to no one. What 
can I do ? ” 

“Onlytrugtto the chance of meeting him. He is al- 
most as far off in London as in America. You could ad- 
vertise, but he wouldn’t answer.” 

“ No. It’s clear he means to avoid me.” 

“Just so. Either his taste must be very bad, or he has 
some object in doing so.” 

“ If I meet him anywhere, I will follow him until I find 
an opportunity of speaking to him.” 

“ Take care where you follow him. Don’t you think 
Frances, it would be better to let the matter rest ? Your 
father must certainly be dead. The mode of his death can 
matter little after this interval.” 

“ It matters much to me. I will find out.” 

“How does the house get on ? ” asked Mr. Trenfield, to 
change the subject. 

“Capitally — and Mrs. Melville is a treasure.” 

“A treasure is she ? Good friends already, then ?” 

“ Yes. She seemed to shudder at the mention of the stage 
for the first few days. Now she is quite reconciled to her 
lot, and, I believe, will eventually degenerate into a regu- 
lar theatre-goer.” 

“‘Evil communications corrupt good manners.’ Mrs. 
Melville has always prided herself on her manners. Now, 
if you have any more business to talk about, do so ; if not, 
Charlie shall show you to your carriage.” 

Frances laughed at her dismissal, and left the office, es- 
corted by Charlie. He saw her safe in her little brougham. 

“ Come and see me soon, Charlie,” she said as she drove 
off, and by her invitation left him a very happy boy. He 
knew his attachment was hopeless, but it was a great 
thing for a young fellow to be on visiting terms with a 
prima donna. He felt that he should be the envied of his 
friends. 

Mrs. Melville, of whom Frances had made mention, was 
a lady who had been selected to preside over her establish- 
ment, keep her company. Took after her, and, in a word, to 
play propriety when needed. Siie was a friend of Mrs. 
Trenfield, by whom the arrangement was made; yet not 
v/ithout difficulty, for although the comfortable home of- 
fered to Mrs. Melville was an immense attraction, she 
being a widow in very poor circumstances, an obstacle, 
which at first seemed immovable, presented itself. This 
was the utter horror with which she regarded everytliing 


A CARDLVAL SIN. 


150 

connected with the stage. She was not an illiberal-minded 
woman, but from her youth upward had mingled with that 
peculiar class of persons who think the entrance to a thea- 
tre the road to ruin ; people who at the most draw the line 
at circuses. It seemed the irony of fate that her steps 
should be guided stageward. Wlien Mrs. Trenfield first 
broached the subject to her, she shuddered, and begged it 
might never be mentioned again ; but her friend, who 
knew her many good qualities in spite of her peculiar no- 
tions, was persistent. Frances, who had seen Mrs. Mel- 
ville several times, liked her ; and the good widow was so 
pleased with the girl that she began to waver. .and say to 
herself that if all actresses and singers were like this one, 
she may have judged harshly. Then Mrs. Trenfield, who 
was anxious for both parties that the negotiations should 
be concluded satisfactorily, talked to her in a way which 
almost convinced her it was her duty to accept the charge 
offered her. Mrs. Melville, by a great sacrifice, not of her- 
self, but of her opinions, which were as dear to her, con- 
sented. It may have been her hope was to turn Frances 
from her dangerous career. If so, it soon left her, and, as 
the stronger mind began to influence the weaker, Frances 
-was not far wrong in her assertion that Mrs. Melville was 
experiencing a new-born desire to witness with her own 
eyes the stage triumphs she had read and heard so much 
about. 

Frances had taken a furnished house for the rest of the 
season. Leaving the fact that Twickenham was too far 
from London out of the question, she had no intention of 
abusing the Trcnfield’s hospitality. Besides, she felt that 
a public character, as she knew she must with success be- 
come, would upset with her presence that prosaic, well- 
regulated home ; so as soon as she knew her future lot was 
a public, not a private one, she had, as she said, set up 
housekeeping, assisted by Mrs. Melville. The house was 
a small one, but answered every purpose ; and as Frances 
had been extravagant enough to refurnish the drawing- 
room in accordance with her own taste, she was pleased 
with her new home, and determined to make herself happv 
there. Mrs. Melville took all tlie cares of housekeeping 
off her shoulders, and played the part of protectress with 
great dignity. The visitors who called wondered who the 
self-possessed middle-aged lady was. They concluded she 
must be some near relative of th.e girl’s, as'there was noth- 
ing- in her manner which betrayed'dependenee. 


A CAA^D/NAL SIxV. 


*51 


She was indeed a treasure to Frances. Now that the 
first plunge was taken, her conscientious scruples soon 
vanished. She had in former days moved in good, if very 
straight-laced society, which was one of the great reasons 
why Mrs. Trenfield was so anxious to place her with 
Frances. It was, she knew, doing a good turn to each of 
her friends. 

Allan Bourchier had not as yet called. He had been at 
the opera, but had not ventured to intrude behind the 
scenes. Frances knew he would call, and, perhaps, was 
looking forward to tlie visit. She w^as sitting alone with 
Mrs. Melville this morning. That lady was engaged in 
one of the hundred feminine methods of passing time — 
one of those little tasks which employ a woman’s hands 
without interfering with the liberty of her tongue. No 
wonder they are so popular. Men are unfortunate, none 
of their occupations offer the same advantages. 

Frances was at the piano with a manuscript song before 
her, which she was trying over. It was the last effort of 
an ambitious composer — perhaps Mr. Sinclair. I can give 
the words, but not the music. 

Now all is done and all is said, 

And Love uncrowned between us two ; 

The last tears dried our eyes would shed, 

And both are free to love anew" — 

Both free to take wha’t life may hold, 

New smiles to seek, new love to claim — 

Yet, love, if happier than the old. 

The new love will not be the same ! 

Though new love’s light our eyes may fill, 

It pales by that which lit them last j 
And sweet new words can never still 
The sweeter echoes of the past — 

Yea, even as a tale twice-told, 

A star that burns with borrowed flame. 

Though happier, truer than the old. 

The new love will not be the same ! 

Mrs. Melville laid down her w’ork as the song ended. 

“ I don’t think the new songs are anything like so good 
as the old,” she said. 

“ Very likely not, but remember only the very best of 
the old songs have lived.” 

“Yet tliere were lots of little things we used to sing 
which sounded much sweeter than these new ones. Per- 
haps I am like the old man who didn’t think the toys of 
the present day so good as those of his boyhood.” 


152 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


“ Tastes change, you know/’ 

“ But all the modern ballads are about despairing, dis* 
mal lovers, or angelic children, or impossible sailors.” 

“ What were they about formerly ? ” asked Frances. 

Mrs. Melville looked nonplussed. 

“ I scarcely remember,” she said, “ but they were very 
pretty and moving. Different, I think, from the present 
ones.” 

Frances laughed. 

“I suspect they were much the same. They go round 
and round in the same circle. Every now and then one 
gets outside, and becomes a great song, but only now and 
then.” 

“ Well, you know best. Perhaps I was in love with some 
one when they used to move me so.” 

Mrs. Melville sighed a little regretful sigh. 

“ Perhaps when that time comes for me the modern 
ones may have a like effect. I will wait and see.” 

“ Mr. Bourchier,” said a servant, opening the door. 

He entered, looking very handsome and glad. Frances 
welcomed him, and introduced him to Mrs. Melville, who 
was gracious to the young man. He stayed some half 
hour, chatting pleasantly, then took his leave.” 

I suppose,” said Frances, “you don’t know a young 
man, a few years older than you, I should think, named 
Manders — George Manders.” 

He shook his head. 

“ I know lots of men, but no one of that name.” 

“ Would you mind asking some of your friends the ques- 
tion ? ” 

“ Not at all,” he said, eager to be of any service to her. 
“ What is he ? Wiiat is he like ? ” 

She gave him a minute description of the man. People 
can very seldom identify those they know by description, 
so Allan was none the wiser. 

“ He must be a good-looking fellow from your picture 
of him,” he said, feeling rather ill at ease. 

“ Yes, he is handsome — in his way. I have lost sight of 
him for years, and am anxious to see him again.” 

“ An old friend, then ? ” 

“ Yes, a very old friend.” 

Fie asked the question as if so much depended upon it 
that she could not help blushing as she answered it. Wa« 
the blush for him or for Manders ? Allan would have fell 
much more comfortable had he known. 


A CAMD/.YAL SIN, 


*53 


“ I will ‘ ask about/ as they say in the West, and let you 
know,” he said, bidding her adieu. 

“Good morning, Mr. Bourcliier,” said Mrs. Melville. 
“ I am glad to have seen you. I knew )"uur father. I 
danced with him years ago at a county ball, and met him 
several times afterward at a friend’s. I wonder if he has 
changed as much as 1 have ? ” 

“ He has changed a great deal,” said Allan rather sadly. 
“Sometimes I fear he is breaking up altogether.” 

He was glad to find that Mrs. Melville knew his father. 
He fancied she was nearly related to Frances, and it was 
pleasant to find that the girl’s connections were of his own 
station in life. Not that it made any difference to him ; 
but by and by, if things went right, he would have to tell 
his father and mother of the happiness he had won. 

“I like that young man,” said Mrs. Melville, after his 
departure. “ He means well, my dear. He is good and 
lionest, and by no means a fool. He is the eldest son, and 
Redhills is a fine property.” 

‘‘So much the better for him,” said Frances. 

“Yes. There is no position so pleasant as a country 
gentleman’s. His father was member for the county ; very 
likely it will be his turn some day.” 

Frances said nothing. 

“Philip Bourchier was a handsome young man — -not so 
handsome as his son, though. Fie was not much liked 
then ; lie was proud, and people whispered funny tales 
about him. Then he reformed and settled down. There 
was a lawsuit about the estate some long time ago.” 

“Did that make him settle down ?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Mrs. Melville, not noticing the ab- 
surdity of the question. “Perhaps it did. Lawsuits are 
great trials — all my husband’s money went in one.” 

Mrs. Melville, during Allan’s visit, had seen what Fran- 
ces liad not seen, or pretended She had not seen. There 
were little signs, tokens, ways of speech which revealed 
much of the game to an experienced looker-on. With 
the keen interest she felt in the girl, nothing would have 
pleased Mrs. Melville more than to have seen her married 
to a suitable person, and Allan seemed to fulfil every re- 
quirement. With her strange ideas of the stage, it never 
entered into her head to doubt that Frances, even at the 
outset of her promising career, would, without hesitation, 
resign all the honors which she might expect were waiting 
for her^ in order to become the wife of a gentleman who 


154 


A CARDJXAL SI.V. 


would hold such a good position in the county of West- 
shire as Allan when he became Bourchier of Redhills. 
The opposition, she feared, would come from his family. 
Naturally, they would object to his taking an actress for 
his wife, though she could nut help thinking, in spite of 
her prejudices and the exalted value she placed upon 
county aristocracy, that Frances would be an acquisition 
to any family she entered. So the kindly old match-maker 
hoped the young fellow would call again, and trusted that 
in time her charge would feel as much movred by the mod- 
ern love songs as she had been by the old ones in the days 
of her first attachment. 

Oh, yes, he called again and again — very often, in fact. 
He called with varying success, as sometimes he found the 
ladies alone, sometimes with many visitors ; for Mdlle. 
Francesca’s circle of acquaintance was rapidly enlarging. 
He met men he knew there, some one or two, the very 
sight of whom in that little drawing-room made him grind 
his teeth with rage. Yet he could not blame her. Accord- 
ing to the customs of society, they might liave called on 
his mother or his sisters; and, moreover, Mrs. Melville's 
sheltering wing was always over her. He blessed tliat 
wing, although, at times, when he was the only visitor, he 
wished it would flutter and bear the owmer away for a short 
interval. 

They were great friends now, Allan and Frances. On 
one or two happy occasions she iiad let him accompany 
her to picture galleries or other places where something 
was to be seen ; and after a while Mrs. Melville grew very 
merciful, and often left them alone. He made what use he 
dared of his opportunities, and little by little hope grew into 
something like certainty. He was very happy — he felt 
that the girl welcomed him as she welcomed no other, 
talked to him as no one else heard her talk ; that with him 
she was softer, sweeter, even humbler, wishing, for some 
reason whicli she dared not own even to herself, to please 
him as a woman, not to claim liis homage by right of gen- 
ius. The truth was, although as yet Allan dared not vent- 
ure to breathe it to himself, Frances was by no means in- 
different to him. 

As yet lie had not ventured to ask her if she loved him. 
He dared not risk everything by that one question. 
Sooner or later he knew that the moment would come 
when he would be unable to keep his secret, if it were a 
secret, any longer ; that any day a word or an action 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


1 f* M 

^55 

hers would bring the passionate avowal from his lips. The 
time came sooner than he expected. 

One day he called at an unusually early hour for a vis- 
itor. The servant showed him into the drawing-room, and 
told him that Mrs. Melville was not well enough to leave 
her room, but Mdlle. Francesca would doubtless see him. 
He bore the news of Mrs. Melville’s illness with iinofrate- 
ful resignation, and sat down to wait until Frances should 
appear. 

Whether the servant forgot to announce his arrival, or 
whether the announcement fell upon heedless ears, will 
never be known — anyway, he waited alone in that little draw- 
ing-room for a time that seemed interminable. Then the 
door opened very quickly, and Frances entered. She did 
not see him at first. She walked swiftly across the room to- 
ward her writing-table, bearing herself in a manner that was 
so unusual off the stage that he stood transfixed, instead of 
stepping forward to greet her. Her brows were bent, her 
cheek was flushed, her figure drawn up to its full height. 
She was evidently under the influence of some strong emo- 
tion ; and as she entered he noticed her hands were tearing 
a letter longways and crossways until it became a number 
of small square fragments. 

Of course he had but a moment or two to remark all 
this. However much upset a lady may be, she is bound 
to notice the addition to the ordinary contents of her 
drawing-room of a gentleman standing six feet in his 
stockings. So, with a start of surprise and a forced return 
to a semblance of her usual manner, she turned and greeted 
him. She smiled, but her eyes told of tears. Actress 
though she was, for once slie failed in her art. It would 
have deceived no one, much less one who studied every 
look with the penetration of love. 

“ Tell me what vexes you,” he said, taking her hand. 
“Let me know if I can help you.” 

“ Tell you ! ” she said, in a tone of wonderment, at the 
same time tossing into a waste-paper basket the tiny frag- 
ments of paper which the letter was now reduced to. 
“ Teh you ; ah, no.” 

“\es, me,” he said, eagerly. “Are we not friends? If 
you have trouble, let me share it.” 

“ There are troubles a woman cannot tell her friends.” 

“Yet tell me; are we not even more than friends, 
Frances ? ” 

The moment had come, he knew. He was speaking in 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


156 

that tone which tells, more llian words, how a man’s heart 
is moved. She made no pretence of misunderstanding 
him, but she disengaged the hand he again tried to take. 
Her eyes fell to the ground, and she was silent for a while. 
He waited until she spoke ; then her voice was scornful, 
but full of passion, although the words came slowly and 
distinctly. 

“Shall I tell you that two men have offered me their 
love to-day — in clear language, written language ?” 

His face flushed, then grew pale. 

“Yes,” she continued, “and both are rich — both count 
their income by thousands. One of them,” she added, 
with a scarcely perceptible gesture toward tlie torn-up 
letter, “bears' one of the noblest and liighcst titles in the 
land.” 

“ And what else ? ” asked Allan, who knew she had more 
to say. 

“ There is only one little thing — perhaps even you will 
think it strange that an actress or a singer should take it 
into consideration — they both liappen to be married.” 

There was biting scorai in the last words. Allan ground 
Ills teeth. 

“ The letters might liave been written by the same 
hand,” she continued, “ the wording is so similar. Is there 
a peculiar form in such cases ? Each regretted being 
forced to write — each would rather have spoken ; but un- 
fortunately each found so much difficulty in finding an 
opportunity of speaking to me alone. Are these the 
gentlemen of England, Mr. Bourchicr?” 

What could he find to say in defence of this kind ? 
Very little, I am afraid. He was filled with indignation, 
but had no one to vent it on. He knew much of the frail- 
ties of mankind, it may be he judged them lightly, but he 
would have utterly despised any man who could thus with- 
out a word or look of encouragement so degrade a pure 
true woman in her own eyes. The wa iters of those epistles 
would have fared badly liad they at that moment been in 
Allan Bourchier’s hands. Yet out of evil cometh good. 
He cauglit her hand and drew' her to him. 

“1 love you,” he exclaimed; “you know it. Frances, 
my love, come to me, take me — let me stand between you 
and this. Let the one who insults my wife have to face a 
terrible reckoning with me.” 

It was over — over in a second — closer and closer he held 
her. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


157 


“Tell me yon love me!” he entreated, as he saw the 
bright blood crimsoning her face and white neck. 

He must hear her say it — not that he doubted now, know- 
ing that the girl would have suffered no man’s arm to hold 
lier unless her love was his. 

“Yes, I love you,” she said, quietly, and then with a 
feeling of strangely blended happiness, love, shame, and 
safety, she laid her head on his shoulder and sobbed. 

Allan comforted her as young men usually comfort their 
sorrowful loves. He was soon successful, and the two sat 
side by side, looking for and reading the future in each 
other’s eyes till they were bound to part. 

“ I shall go down to Redhills to-morrow — no, the day 
after — and tell them all about it at home,” said Allan, as 
he left lier. 

“Yes,” said Frances. 

It seemed the most natural thing he could do. It never 
occurred to her that his people would not be pleased at 
the step he contemplated. 

So Allan left the house, wondering why such bliss was 
reserved for him in particular, and Frances went in quest 
of Mrs. Melville, whose ailments were not serious enough 
to induce her to defer the news. 

“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Melville, “ I am so glad. I 
have been hoping it would be so ever since he first came 
here. Nothing could be better. I do congratulate you 
with all my heart, and, above all, I am delighted to think 
you will leave the stage.” 

Frances opened her eyes astonished. 

“ Leave the stage ! ” she echoed. 

“ Of course you will. Why should the wife of a coun- 
try gentleman continue on the stage ! Did he not say so 
at once ?” 

Mrs. Melville, in her inexperience, quite ignored every- 
thing to do with contracts, heavy penalties, etc. 

“ He never mentioned such a thing,” said Frances. “ In- 
deed, I understood the opposite.” 

“My dear, naturally he took it for granted. It will be 
the first thing he will insist upon.” 

•I' he girl was silent a minute. 

“ I think not,” she said ; “ I hope not.” 

But she grew thoughtful, and wondered whether Mrs. 
Melville’s surmise was correct. When she met Allan the 
next day she determined to clear this point at once. 

“ You Will have a wandering life with me, Allan,” she said 


// CARD/N'AL SIN, 


No matter : it will be a life with you — what more do 1 
want ? ” 

“We shall go almost over the world together. France, 
Italy, Germany, America — who knows where my profes^ 
sion will take me.” 

“You will not give it up, then ?” 

It was not an entreaty, simply a question. 

“ I cannot for a long, long time. Could you, with fame 
and fortune .to make ? Are you rich, Allan ? I care so 
little whetlicr you are rich or poor that I can ask.” 

He kissed iier, and quite believed lien 

“ I am fairly well off now,” he said ; “ and, of course, I 
shall be ricli some day — but may that day be a long one, 
as it means my father’s death.” 

“You will take me as I am, Allan — not asking me to 
give up my career ? ” 

He held both her hands, and looked passionately into 
her face. 

“ Love me, and be my wife,” he said ; “ I ask nothing 
else. My life shall be shaped by yours — it must be a 
blessed one. Perhaps tiie time may come when you will 
grow tired of triumphs — tired of all save my love — then 
we will settle down into private life like an ordinary 
couple. Till then let us say no more about it.” 

He was promising a great deal — more than he dreamed 
of. It was rasli ; but who would not be rash and promise 
everything wlien such eloquent eyes were ready to thank 
him — such lips willing to reward him ? 

“All, he says so now, my dear,” remarked Mrs. Melville, 
ominously but not unkindly. “But wait and see. Every 
gentleman likes to have his wife all to himself, not share 
her with the public — that is, unless he means to live on 
her earnings, which Allan does not. Wait and see ; but 
when the time comes take my advice and do as he asks 
you.” 

The next day Allan went home. He left London feel- 
ing, or persuading himself he felt, no fear as to the result 
of his interview with his father and mother. Why should 
he ? He was going to give them the most beautiful, 
sweetest daughtei in the world. If she followed a profes- 
sion against which some vulgar prejudice still lingered, 
she was at the top of the tree in it, and her name was 
above reproach. Still, as he came mile by mile nearer his 
destination his sentiments were less sanguine. Difficulties 
began to crop up, and he saw objections forming with 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


159 


fearful rapidity. However, in spite of ah that might arise, 
there was but one thing to think of. He loved her pas- 
sionately, and he was pledged to marry her — marry her at 
once. With or without his parents’ consent, on his return 
to town he would settle the very day. This was his frame 
of mind when he drove up to Redhills. 

His advent was a ’*^elcome one to his father and mother. 
He thought the former looking rather better, and was 
glad to think so, knowing his impending revelation would 
be an agitating one. It took place after dinner, when 
father and son were alone at the table. Allan plunged 
headlong into the matter. 

“ I came down to tell you I am thinking of getting 
married — soon,” he said. 

“ I fancied you had something to tell me ; your man- 
ner has been so nervous. I was afraid you were in debt ; 
but this is better news.” 

“Yes, you have been telling me for some time I ought 
to marry ; so I take your advice.” 

“ Tell me who it is, Allan, although I have no fear as to 
the suitability of your choice.” 

He told him without excuse — without even stopping to 
assure his father that Frances was so far beyond any pos- 
sible shadow which, rightly or wrongly, is supposed by 
gome to be cast by the stage. He spoke so firmly, so con- 
fidently, and as o'~>c so grateful for the happiness he had 
won, that Mr. Bourchier. knowing his son’s disposition, 
was compelled to feel tliat for good or for ill the thing 
was settled ; that opposition from him, although lamented, 
would be disregarded. The news was grievous news to 
him, but he heard all that Allan had to say without com- 
ment or betraying how it affected him. He was disap- 
pointed, but somehow of late years he had given up expect- 
ing to get any more gratification from his life. 

“ I suppose, Allan,” he said, as his son ceased speaking, 
and looked for his reply, “ that you mean to please your- 
self in this matter, whether I consent or not ? ” 

Allan made no reply. 

“Your mother and I are asked to accept as a daughter 
a girl you saw a few months ago for the first time — a pub- 
lic singer.” 

“ See her, and you will not wonder at me,” said Allan. 

“ It is no use my commanding or entreating, I conclude.” 

“I am afraid — I mean, I hope not.” 

“ Then I don’t see what more I can say. I cannot pre- 


i6o 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


vent ; you cannot expect me to consent. As to my futun 
action, I must be guided by circumstances.” 

“Circumstances I have no fear about, sir.” 

“That’s as may be — anyway you will be able to live oi 
your wife’s earnings, I suppose.” 

The son flushed. “ You wound deeply, father,” he said. 
“ I love her — more I cannot say.” 

“ I did not mean to wound you. You are my eldest son 
— I care for no one as I care for you.” There w'as deep 
affection in his voice ; so much that Allan held out his 
hand and grasped his father’s. 

“ Go and tell your mother,” said Mr. Bourchier ; “ leave 
me to think.” 

Allan obeyed. He was not dissatisfied with the result 
of his confession. He could scarcely hope his father 
would at once agree to his wishes. With his mother he 
expected a far easier task. 

In this he w^as mistaken. She w'as shocked at wdiat she 
called his infatuation, scandalized at the thought of a 
daughter-in-law who sang for money, indeed wanted to 
pooh-pooh the affair as a boy’s folly. Allan had great 
work to restrain himself. Mother and son w^ere nearly on 
the brink of a serious quarrel. It w^as only evaded by the 
mutual agreement that Mr. Bourchierwas the right person 
to decide the matter. 

“And he wall never, never, countenance such an out- 
rageous thing, Allan,” said Mrs. Bourchier. 

Yet he did. To Allan’s surprise, he announced his in- 
tention of returning with him to town. He went to his 
hotel, and spent the next day making delicate inquiries. 
He had many friends who knew'- everything about every 
one. He learned all that the world knew concerning 
Mdlle. Francesca, and from some to w^hom he intrusted 
the true reason for his inquisition he found that his son 
should be an object of envy, not of blame. From old Lord 
Keynsham for instance. 

“Be gad! Bourchier,” he said, “your boy may think 
himself lucky. That girl might marry any man in Eng- 
land she chose. I -wish she’d take a fancy to Willsbridge. 
In ten years she’d, have sung all the mortgages off the 
property. I’ll lend them one of my places for their honey- 
moon. You go and see her, Bourchier ; the v^ery sight of 
such a fine woman will do you good.” 

He did go and see her — next day. It was by his own 
request. Frances received him gladly, naturally, without 


A CARDII\rAL SIN. 


i6i 

embarrassment. Then he went back home and told his 
wife that he should offer no opposition to Allan’s mar- 
riage. His word was law with Mrs. Bourchier, so the mat- 
ter was at an end. 

He used exactly the same words to Allan, who thanked 
him, but added he feared none when his father and Fran- 
ces once met. 

By the by, Allan,” he said, as they parted, “ what is 
her right name ? ” 

“Not unlike our own — Boucher.” His father shud- 
dered. It was an ominous name. He looked upon it as 
a pure coincidence. Boucher is not uncommon. 

“ She is English, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Allan, who always considered her so. 
He fancied his father had a prejudice against Americans, 
and saw no reason for awaking it. 

“Who are her connections ? ” 

“She has no relatives — she is an orphan.” 

All the better, thought his father, and there the matter 
ended. 

How little Frances thought whose blood was on the 
hand of the man she was both pleased and proud to wel- 
come — Allan’s father ! 

Why was Pliilip Bourchier, a man, proud in some of the 
worse senses of the word, so easily induced to give his con- 
sent or withhold his opposition to his son’s marriage with 
Mdlle. Francesca, the singer? To know why, you must 
look into the man’s secret thoughts ; then you will perhaps 
understand. To begin with, he was passionately fond of 
his children, and the fear that was gnawing at his heart, 
day by day sapping his health, was that with the knowledge 
possessed by Manders the hour might come when he might 
have to stand before his children — not, perhaps, a convicted 
but a proven murderer. The sword might fall at any mo- 
ment — the eyes of those who, if they feared, yet loved and 
respected him, might turn from him in horror and grief — 
their lives even as his would be blighted by the crime. At 
any cost he would keep his children’s love as long as he 
could. If Allan some day should mutely accuse and blame 
him, it should not be in his power to say he had thrown 
other obstacles in the way of what he had determined was 
his happiness in life. He knew that Allan would walk in 
his own path — so be it. He had chosen, and he might be 
right in his choice — but, right or wrong, father and SOU 
should be friends till the dreaded hour came. 

XI 


i 62 


A CARDIA'AL SI.Y. 


Allan and Frances were married in a few weeks' time — • 
married so quietly that not half-a-dozen people knew it. 
So well was the secret kept that when it became public 
property it was almost too long past an event for the jour- 
nals of the day to trouble much about. They feared to 
retail stale news ; and fresh-culled gossip is the life of a 
society paper. 

They were very, very happy. Nevertheless a private 
gentleman who marries a prima donna must indeed be a 
sanguine man if he thinks that his life is to be quite free 
from annoyance and trouble. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

INNUENDOES. 

Mr. and Mrs. Digby Bourchier lived at Shepherd’s Bush 
in a house even smaller than was rendered necessary by 
the pitiful income, as Digby called it, which his cleverness 
had wrung from Philip Bourchier. He did not object to 
this, as he had no wish to encourage expenditure in the 
home direction, and the smaller the house, the lighter the 
cost of his establishment, so much the more money was 
left for him to enjoy and spend in a variety of ways apart 
from his home. Every quarter-day, as promised, a sum of 
money was paid to Josephine’s credit, which by her hus- 
band’s command she at once transferred by check to him ; 
or all of it that was left after paying tradesmen’s bills and 
any other amounts due. On this point she was firm, and 
although Digby would have liked to have allowed all the 
bills to run until they grew tired of running, and event- 
v.ally staggered up to Mr. Bourchier as their natural goal, 
Josephine, in spite of threats, persisted in cutting their 
career short every three months ; so that the household at 
Shepherd’s Bush was conducted on a principle of solvency. 
There had in the course of the last two years been many 
other amounts paid direct by Mr. Bourchier to his son-in- 
law, but of these Josephine knew little or nothing. 

It was between eleven and twelve in the morning. Digby, 
unshorn and untidy, in slippers and an old dressing-gown, 
was trying to eat his breakfast. His head was aching 
from the effects of dissipation over night, and he was look- 
ing back with regret upon the days when no a^mount of 


A CAJ^DfXAL STM 


163 

smoking, drinking, or late hours interfered to any ap- 
preciable extent with his appetite. Not being successful 
in the eating line, he unlocked a spirit-case, and filled a small 
glass with brandy. Tossing this off, he refilled the glass, 
and placing it beside him, lit a cigar and smoked, now and 
then knocking the ashes onto the plate which held his half- 
consumed breakfast. Presently Josephine entered, and as 
he neither changed his attitude nor occupation, we may 
presume there w’as nothing uncommon in them. Certainly 
there was little of the noble heroic element left about this 
untidy, dissipated-looking man, smoking over his breakfast- 
table, and drinking raw spirits at noontide. 

However strained relations may be between husband 
and wife, so long as they live under the same roof, and a 
quarrel is not absolutely raging between them, they must 
see something of each other, and interchange remarks. 
Josephine never quarrelled with her husband ; she did not 
even go out of her way to avoid him. She simply ceased 
to care for him or trouble as to what he did or where he 
w^ent. She was a brave little woman, and held him in too 
much contempt to fear him. Of a morning, w’hen he went 
out, she asked him whether he intended to dine at home 
or not. If he expressed his intention of returning to din- 
ner, she provided it, and partook of it in his company. If 
not, she went about her own affairs. When, as on several 
occasions, he returned home the worse for brandy, she left 
him and retired to her bedroom until the next morning ; 
and once when he made his appearance in a stage of drunk- 
enness which may be called an amorous stage, a condi- 
tion in which enough sobriety was present to make him 
realize the fact that she was still a very charming little 
girl, and, moreover, his wife, she made it clear to his 
spirit-dazed eyes that a hand laid upon her with familiarity 
\vould produce exactly the same consequences and be less 
acceptable than a blow ; that is, she would leave the house 
at once. She looked so resolute and determined that her 
husband since then had not ventured either to caress or 
strike her, although at times he felt urged to do both. 

Josephine’s hero had vanished, and in its place stood a 
crafty, cowardly, vicious adventurer. 

Long after she had seen broad glimpses of his true 
nature, he tried to keep up the deception as to his title to 
Redhills. It was only when she told him that nothing 
would please her better than to see the claim openly as- 
serted and settled forever that his assertion ceased to 


A CARDINAL SIN 


164 

carry weight with her ; and when convinced that even this 
was an untruth on his part, every vestige of lingering love 
left her heart. Henceforth let them be acquaintances, 
lodgers under the same roof — nothing more. 

*‘Are there no letters this morning?” asked Digby, as 
she entered the room. 

“ I had one from my mother. There was no other.” 

“ Old boy and girl pretty brisk ?” asked Digby. 

He was fond of speaking in this disrespectful way of her 
parents. He fancied it annoyed her. If so, she did not 
show it. 

They are much the same as usual. Papa, perhaps, a 
little better.” 

Any more news?” 

Nothing to interest you — except that Allan is going to 
be married.” 

That is most interesting to me. I hope he is going to 
marry money. He may want it some day. He has very 
few claims on my consideration.” 

She paid no heed to the hint — the imposture was too old 
by now. 

“ He is going to make an unsuitable match also.” 

She could not help that “ also.” 

He laughed his most unpleasant laugh. 

“ I can only hope he will be as happy as I am. What’s 
the girl’s name ? ” 

*‘She is Mdlle. Francesca, the new singer.” 

Digby dropped his lighted cigar and stared at his wife 
with a bewildered look. That look on liis face was the 
only true one she had seen there for a long time. 

Mdlle. who ? ” he cried. 

“ Francesca. You have heard of her. Fine voices seem 
to have an attraction for our family.” 

Certainly, Josephine was not afraid of her husband. 

He said nothing, but, resuming his cigar, thought as 
intently as his aching head would allow him to think ; and 
as Josephine, who was wondering at the surprise he had 
displayed, watched him, she saw a wicked smile — half 
malice, half triumph — flit over his face several times. The 
smile well expressed his thoughts. This marriage must 
be to his advantage. He hated Allan Bourchier. Doubt- 
less it is pleasant for a bad man to hold his enemy’s hap- 
piness in his hand ; to be able to bid it vanish whenever 
he chose to speak the word. It was a new combination, 
after his own heart. Allan’s marriage with his cousin 


A CARDUSTAL SIN. 


165 

would certainly confirm him in the possession of Redhills ; 
but when he succeeded to his inheritance, what would he 
be willing to pay Digby to conceal the fact that his father 
was the murderer of his wife’s father ? He was shrewd 
enough to comprehend that Allan would love Frances 
with a great passion. Even he himself, he honestly be- 
lieved, could have done that — not for a week, as he had 
loved his pretty wife, but forever. It was the best news 
he had heard for a long Avhile. The only danger to be 
guarded against was* a premature disclosure. He must 
keep the more carefully out of Mrs. Allan Bourchier’s 
way, and it would be well to keep Josephine away from 
her. They were all in his power now ! 

He was so exultant that his wife saw it and feared. 
What did it mean ? She did not, however, condescend to 
inquire. 

“ So Allan the grand is going to marry the divine 
Francesca,” he said. “ May they be happy all the days of 
their lives. She is a charming creature.” 

The manner of his speech startled Josephine. 

‘‘ Do you know her ? ” she asked. 

I know at least something about her.” 

The tone, the accent, the stress on the words were those 
which, when used in club-rooms or other centres of gossip, 
cast an imputation on a woman’s character without abso- 
lutely revealing anything. Josephine was much exercised 
by them. We may easily suppose that Mrs. Bourchier’s 
letter was not expressive of the writer’s entire satisfaction 
at the pending alliance ; indeed, Josephine knew from the 
phraseology employed that her mother heartily disap- 
proved of it — nay, more, feared for the results. It was 
certainly no point in favor of Allan’s chosen one that 
Digby knew anything about her. Josephine loved her 
brother, and would have done much to save him from such 
a sorry fate as her own. She had learned the meaning of 
repenting at leisure. 

“ Tell me all you know about her,” she said, sharply. 

Digby looked at her with a mocking light in his eyes. 

My dear, I could not think of interfering with the plans 
of any member of your family, much less with those of 
Allan, who is old enough to take care of himself.” 

“ Have you anything to say against her ?” 

“Nothing whatever. I never disparage beautiful women. 
When she is Allan’s wife I suppose you must go and visit, 
but until then there is no necessity for it.” 


A CARDII^AL SIN'. 


1x56 

He rose and left the room, and shortly afterward went 

Oilt. 

His words had done their work — so well that, after con- 
sidering them and looking at them in every possible light, 
Josephine went off in search of Allan. 

She called twice at his chambers without finding him 
iicre. The third time she was successful. He was very 
' . -d to see her, and guessed she had heard the news 

“Come to congratulate me, Finey ? ” he asked, kissing 
her. 

She was under some disadvantage in offering advice to 
her elder brother. He had always regarded her as the 
frivolous member of the family, and her ill-advised match 
had not enhanced his opinion of her sagacity. But she 
went boldly to work to save him. 

“ Oh, Allan ! ” she said, “ think before you marry this 
girl. They tell me she is beautiful ; but don’t be rash. 
Think of me and my husband !” 

He was not angry. The comparison between her hus- 
band and Frances was too absurd to be looked at from any 
save a ludicrous point of view. He only laughed. 

“Don’t laugh, Allan,” she pleaded; “I am in earnest. 
When I tell you that my husband says he know’s a great 
deal about her, you will understand my anxiety. Don’t 
be cross, dear.” 

Cross, no — but he was angry. It was no laughing mat- 
ter now. 

“Josephine, tell me word for word what )"our husband 
said.” 

He looked very stern and terrible as he towered above 
the fair, pretty little girl. 

“ He said — he said he knew something about her.” 

As she spoke she realized the weakness of her case. 
How could she reproduce the accent and the sting of his 
words. 

“ It was not so much what he said, but what he im- 
plied.” 

“Your husband is a mean hound, Josephine. He must 
be, or he would never have cajoled a child, like you were 
then, into a secret marriage, and lived ever since on your 
money. He dislikes me — I dislike him; this is his 
spite.” 

She dare not tell him that Digby had advised her not 
to visit Frances ; his wrath, she felt sure, would be too 
terrible. 


A CARDhVAL SIJV. iSf 

“ See what I have done with my life,” she urged. “ Al- 
lan, do pause and consider.” 

She looked very childish and pretty, and the tears were 
in her eyes. He could not be angry with her ; and, be- 
sides, she liad not seen Frances. 

“Look here, Finey,” he said, “I am going now to call 
on Frances — come with me. You will understand every 
thing after you have seen her.” 

She was curious as any woman would be, yet she shrank 
from going. She could in no wise lend her countenance 
to the marriage of her brother with a woman concerning 
whom her husband had stated he knew something. 

“Not now, Allan,” she said; “after you are married, 
perhaps — that is, if you are resolved to marry.” 

“ As you like,” he said, coldly ; “ but don’t forget that a 
man treasures up a slight of this kind, even when a sister 
confers it.” 

“Oh, Allan!” she cried, weeping, “don’t you, of all 
people, turn against me — my life is not a very happy 
one.” 

He said no more, kissed her, put her into a cab, and 
sent her liome ; but he felt, as he drove to St. John’s 
Road, that one of the greatest pleasures life could give 
would be to wring Digby Bourchier’s neck. 

To him Digby was an impostor. After Josephine’s 
marriage, and when he had learned how the man had 
been admitted to his father’s house, he had at once jumped 
at the conclusion that something startling, and making a 
vast difference to his own prospects in life, would result 
from the sudden appearance and recognition of this 
strange cousin. He had asked his father boldly for an 
explanation, and Mr. Bourchier had been obliged to 
admit that he had been frightened and deceived by a 
specious tale and concocted evidence, that at one time he 
had trembled lest the estate should be torn from him. 
He had now found out the imposture, but not before the 
adventurer had married his favorite daughter. It never 
entered Allan’s head that Digby was not the representative 
of the bastard branch. He was, he thought, simply a 
clever scoundrel, who had traded on his knowledge of the 
family history, and by persuading Mr. Bourchier of his 
legitimacy, had forced his way into the family circle with 
such direful results. It was not a pleasant history to re- 
count, so no wonder Allan simply told Frances that his 
sister had married his cousin, and the cousin had turned 


I68 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


out a rascal. There was no chance of any intimacy- 
springing up between them, so there was no need to say 
more. 

Josephine called on Allan’s wife after her marriage. 
She was determined not to like her, and partially suc- 
ceeded in keeping her resolve. Her manner was some- 
what constrained and her politeness forced. Frances saw 
it, and read clearly her disapproval to the marriage. She 
was a far prouder and more sensitive woman than her 
visitor ; but her heart was kindly disposed to a sister 
of her husband’s, whose life was such an utter wreck, so 
she said nothing about the matter to Allan. 

“ You would like me to call on your sister some day ?’* 
she asked him. 

“No; I would much rather not. I would rather you 
never entered her husband’s house. Make poor little 
Josephine welcome here whenever she comes, and explain 
to her that I do not wish you to call. She will under- 
stand perfectly why it is.” 

“Very well,” said Frances. 

“You know nothing of her husband, I suppose ?” said 
Allan. 

“How sliould I ; why do you ask ?” 

“Josephine fancied he hinted at having met you some- 
■where.” 

She shook her head. 

“ I knew no one named Bourchier until I knew you.” 

Bourchier sounds such a different word to Boucher that 
even the name of Digby being coupled with it awoke no 
associations in her mind. Perhaps she had forgotten ; per- 
haps never heard the Christian name of that brief-lived 
infant brother whom she had never seen. 

So it was, that although Frances and George Manders 
were now so closely connected by marriage they never 
came in contact. He was in no hurry to meet her. As 
soon as Mr, Bourchier left the world he would have a chat 
with Allan. He fancied Mr. Bourchier was not destined 
to live long. He knew what his true complaint was, and 
from time to time jogged it on by demands of money and 
threats. He could wait a while and see. If Philip Bour- 
chier’s health improved, it was to him the true position of 
Allan’s wife must be told ; with him the bargain must be 
made— perhaps a supplementary one with" Allan. He 
would make no mistake this time. A large sum down, 
and a freer, merrier life in the New World. He was getting 


A CARDIN' AL SIN 


165 

tired of London. He would take care not to be too clever 
this time. 

Josephine, chiefly at Allan’s request, came several times 
to his house ; but no affection sprung up between the sis- 
ters-in-law. Digby’s words and insinuations were always 
coming back to Josephine. His manner had persuaded 
her that for once he was not lying. His astonishment had 
been too natural to be counterfeited. Although she was 
compelled to own that Frances’ beauty was enough to 
absolve Allan from the charge of rashness ; although she 
could not find in thought, word, or deed anything to ob- 
ject to, the feeling that the match was an unsuitable one 
for her brother could not be got rid of. However, she 
kept her fears to herself, and in her letters to her mother 
and Mabel said nothing that was not favorable to her new 
sister-in-law. 

Had Digby chosen to tell her any more she would not 
have listened. She was too proud to permit him to in- 
sinuate anything to the detriment of the girl who was now 
her brother’s wife. It was not likely, therefore, that she 
would in any way approach the subject again. On his 
side Digby said no more. His ambiguous words had done 
all he needed, in preventing his wife and Frances from be- 
coming friends and allies, and so lessened the danger of a 
premature revelation. 

Allan had now been married some two months, and was 
beginning to realize all the advantages and some of the 
disadvantages of being the husband of such a famous 
woman as Mdlle. Francesca. As it is the fate of such a 
very small number of men to marry a prima donna^ I shall 
be doing little harm, or be likely to change plans of life, 
by enumerating some of the disadvantages. If the words 
convey a warning, that warning will concern so few that 
they are not worth considering. Any way, it is an un- 
doubted fact that few gentlemen of position have married 
distinguished singers who still keep to the boards without 
eventually regretting it. A marquis may be a bad man, 
but the interference of a melodious pastrycook with his 
domestic arrangements must be a trying affair. Yet AUan 
can scarcely be blamed if he refused to be alarmed by the 
misfortunes which had happened to other men whose ex- 
ample he was following. Was not Frances different from 
and better than any other woman in the world ? 

So they were married, as related, in the quietest manner 
possible. Mr. Trenfield gave the bride away. Mrs. Tren- 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


-70 

field and Mrs. Melville were in the church, also Herr 
Kaulitz, vvho was let into the secret, and disapproved alto- 
gether of the proceedings. To his mind, for the next 
three or four years Frances should have thought about 
nothing but her art. Her love should only be the simulated 
passion for the tenor hero of the particular opera she sang 
in. She should conquer in every great city in the world 
before siie thought of encumbering herself with a husband. 
This done, she might, if she wished to do so, make a brill- 
iant match — marry a title, and in a blaze of glory and 
success leave the stage, if she thought fit. But to marry 
an ordinary country gentleman like Allan ; to go over the 
world with a husband following her everywhere — it was 
monstrous ! He did not dislike the young man ; indeed, 
he was disposed to view him with favor. He was hand- 
some, clever, kind, and devoted to Frances. He did not 
blame Allan — any one would wish to marry such a girl. 
It was Frances he blamed. 

“ Ach ! zhe is but a voman,” he said disconsolately. “ I 
thought zhe vas zomething more.” 

He hit the bolt exactly. She was but a woman. She 
loved Allan, and so she married him. 

And why not ? She had no one save herself to consult. 
No one who had a right to say a word, unless it were the 
astute manager, who had bound her to himself for three 
years. This gentleman was immensely disgusted when 
she deigned to inform him of her intentions. He remon- 
strated and prophesied all manner of evil, but his words 
were of no avail. He had no wish to interfere with her 
happiness, but he did not like dealings with married 
donne. He had had some bitter experiences with husbands, 
who had been even more exacting in the matter of con- 
tracts than the wives. Francesca was his for three years, 
but he looked on further than that. He even remonstrated 
with Allan ; not that he hoped to gain any thing by that, 
but it relieved his mind. 

“ My dear fellow,” he said — being an important person- 
age in the World, and moving in good society, he had a 
right to speak familiarly — “ my dear fellow, it’s an awful 
nuisance for me. Just when I want something of impor- 
tance done she’ll be having children, and all that sort of 
thing. I’d give five thousand pounds to stop this marriage.” 

The remark was not a refined one, and Allan replied 
shortly, suggesting people should mind their own business. 
The manager opened his eyes. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


171 


own business ! If it isn’t my own business, I don’t 
know what is. It’s your pleasure, and, I dare say, her 
pleasure ; but it’s my business, and an infernal nuisance it 
is. I wish you’d stopped down in Westshire, and married 
some rich old squire’s or banker’s daughter, as you ought 
to have done.” 

“Any way, that’s my concern, not yours,” said Allan. 

The manager said no more, but his words had given 
Allan a foretaste of how Frances’ adhesion to the stage 
might interfere with their domestic life. Yet, if he was 
denied some of the ordinary happiness a man expects to 
gain by marriage with the girl he loves, would he not, on 
the other hand, be blessed above common mortals in every 
thing else ? Besides, they were both young ; perhaps, in 
five or in ten years’ time their true wedded life would be- 
gin. 

The very quiet marriage was not exactly pleasing to 
him. Although he hated parade and display, it seemed a 
hole-and-corner sort of a way of giving himself to the girl 
he loved. Frances had stipulated for this privacy — secrecy 
even. Her reason was to avoid being made the subject of 
tittle-tattle paragraphs in the newspapers. After the cere- 
mony was over there was to be no concealment, although 
there need be no announcement of the event. A larger 
and better house in St. John’s Road had been taken ; a 
furnished one, of course, for she was not sure what her 
movements might be at the end of the season. It might 
be decided slie should make a professional tour through 
England, or she might go abroad — most likely the latter. 
It would have been as foolish for the newly married people 
to furnish a house, as for an officer, daily expecting to be 
called on foreign service, to do so. Yet a furnished house 
is seldom the home to which a man likes to bring his 
bride. All young people who can do so prefer beginning 
housekeeping surrounded by chairs and tables of their 
own choice, bought, it may be, with their own money, 
saved up for that laudable purpose. 

Their honeymoon, too — that sacred interval during 
which bride and bridegroom withdraw themselves entirely 
from the cares and, as they fondly hope, from the curiosity 
of the world, was an unsatisfactory affair regarded in a 
conventional light. From the church they went to 
Bournemouth for three days. On the fourth day Mdlle. 
Francesca was announced to sing in opera. Perhaps in 
the whole of her professional career she was never so 


174 


A CARDINAL SIN 


much tempted to break faith or to plead indisposition as 
on that occasion. But she was too honest to do either ; 
so back to London they went, and Allan sat in his stall 
and heard his wife sing, and no doubt, sing at him the pas- 
sionate words of love which were rightly due to the senti- 
mental tenor whose life, for the purposes of the play, was 
such an unliappy one. 

Then away tiiey went again for two days — then back 
again for a concert at the Hall of Flowers — away again 
and back again as required. Altogether, their honey- 
moon was a disjointed, fragmentary, scrambling, hand-to- 
mouth affair, with little or none of those elements of calm 
repose and freedom from intrusion which are supposed to 
be needful to make this rare occurrence in any one per- 
son’s life properly felicitous. 

Yet they were supremely happy, and returned to Lon- 
don, resolved to continue their apology for a honeymoon 
as best they could at home. So for some week or two 
the door of the new house was kept closed against all vis- 
itors save those whom Mdlle. Francesca was bound to see 
and confer with. 

Mrs. Melville had everything prepared, and welcomed 
them heartily. She was still to remain with them. Frances 
had grown very fond of her ; Allan liked the good lady. 
The low estimate she formed of the stage in general was 
no drawback as far as he was concerned ; especially as she 
separated Frances from anything like censure. Besides, 
there must be some one to look after the house. A prma 
donna, however natural and womanly she may be off the 
stage, can scarcely be expected to order the dinners, man- 
age the servants, sec that the proverbial siiirt-buttons are 
in their places, or, in fact, think of any of the details of 
liousekeeping. All tliese things Mrs. Melville did, and 
did well, so that Allan, as far as creature comforts went, 
had a very pleasant home. 

In one Avay too pleasant, he thought. It was a large, 
well-furnished house, so the rent was proportionately high. 
Mdlle. Francesca was making a large income. The man- 
ager’s terms had been liberal, and in consideration of her 
undoubted success even these had been altered in her 
favor. She saw no necessity for stint. She liked plenty 
of servants, so there were plenty. A carriage was now in- 
dispensable. In fact, the establishment was conducted in 
a liberal way. Allan had a fair income, quite independent of 
bis father, but he saw from the first it would not suffice to 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


m 


live in this manner. He told Frances so. She laughed at 
him. 

“ You silly boy,” she said, I am making lots and lots of 
money, and shall make more. You shall have it all if 
you like, and pay for everything.” 

This was what he wanted, to pay for everything ; but 
not with his wife’s money. He would have wished that 
every farthing she earned might be kept and eventually 
settled upon her. He told her so, and she readily guessed 
his meaning. He was prouder than she thought. 

She persuaded him, but not without difficulty. Was not 
everything that was his hers, and viceversa^ What matter 
from which side the money came ? Let them use it, and 
live as they listed. Some day it might be the other way ; 
he would have to find everything for both. These last 
words raised such delicious visions that he could do no more 
than kiss her, tell her she was the sweetest woman in the 
world, that he loved her, and it must be as she chose. 
Nevertheless, he wished it could have been different. 

Mdile. Francesca could not keep the door of her house 
shut forever, so in a short time it was opened to all who 
had a right to enter it. It was now getting pretty well 
known that she was married, and Allan, whenever he went 
to the haunts of men, was congratulated upon his success. 
He was an object of great interest to all his friends dur- 
ing those days. Pierrepont prided himself that he had pre- 
dicted the event all along. 

“ Do you ever get your wife all to yourself ? ” he asked. 

“ Of course I do.” 

I can’t fancy Francesca Mrs. Allan Bourchier. She 
still goes on singing, I hear.” 

“ For a while, at least.” 

Well, old fellow, I hope you’ll be happy ; but you’ll 
find it a hardish life sometimes, I expect. It’s a regular 
upheaval of family tradition, isn’t it ? ” 

“Very much so ; but we’re both happy, and that’s all I 
want.” 

“Just so. I shall call if you will allow me.” 

“ Do ; we shall always be glad to see you.” 

So Pierrepont called, and many other people called. 
Every one in London seemed^to want to make the acquaint- 
ance of Mdile. Francesca, as she was universally desig- 
nated. Great people wanted her to come to their houses. 
Invitations poured in. Many were refused — many were 
accepted. With some of them it was an impossibility to do 


174 


A CARDINAL SIN 


else but accept ; so tliat, leaving her professional duties 
out of the question, Frances found her hours fully occu- 
pied. Allan accompanied her when and where he could. 
It was fortunate for the young man that he was known in 
society, but it was not without some feeling of annoyance 
that he found his status changed. He was not Mr. Boiir- 
chier, but Mdiie. Francesca’s husband. Men always object 
to a distinction of this sort. 

That she should be triumphant, sought after, and hon- 
ored, pleased him — it seemed but her due. But oh ! if it 
could only have been as his wife that people asked her to 
their liouscs. It was from no selfishness that he wished 
he had been the notable one. There was nothing he could 
do for her. Her position in the world was her own. A 
man likes to think his wife is a more important personage 
for having married him ; Allan was entirely debarred from 
this pleasant sentiment. The very money they lived upon, 
or the greater part of it, came from her. What had he 
given her ? Wliat could he give her ? Nothing but love, 
and this slie returned in full, so that there was no obliga- 
tion on that tender score. 

There were some invitations to Mdlle. Francesca which, 
as they emanated from Royalty, were commands. Several 
of the Royal personages in England are extremely musi- 
cal. So, once or twice, Mdlle. Francesca was invited to 
display her talents for their benefit. It was flattering, but 
the feeling that his wife was at anybody’s beck and call, 
whoever that body might be, jarred upon the husband. But 
Frances was pleased, and he was bound to appear so. 

The w’eeks and months went by, and he found, as Mrs. 
Melville had predicted, that it was not such a little thing, 
jifter ail, sharing his wife with the public. 

Did lie regret ? Never ; not for one moment. When he 
l ad her to himself she was everything he had fancied she 
would be — simple, kind, and loving as himself. But how 
little he really saw oi her! Regret, no — emphatically no! 
Only at times he wished things had been different. Hapy'tv 
as they were, they might be so much happier in a priva - 
capacity. So he drew charming pictures of Frances t! 
mistress at Redhills, beloved and admired by all, and Iris 
very own every hour of his life — Mrs. Allan Bourchito-; 
not Mdlle. Francesca, with rehearsals, study, and a h m- 
dredand one other things to interfere with the cours . f 
true love. 

He concealed all these feelings from Frances. He never 


A CARDINAL SIN 


m 

as much as hmted at such a thing as her retirement from 
the stage. A promise given by Allan was always a prom- 
ise. The only person who suspected — and suspected be- 
cause she sympathized with him — was Mrs. Melville. She 
was a quick-sighted woman, and noticed his moodiness 
and restlessness at times when his wife was absent. She 
saw, too, that his delight at her triumphs was only ex- 
pressed to her ; that he assumed the appearance of it 
for her sake ; but did not really feel such a keen interest 
in the matter. She guessed that the day Francesca began 
to wane in public favor would be the dawn of new and 
greater happiness to Allan. Mrs. Melville, although she 
understood him and sympathized, was frightened. If it 
were so now, what would it be in some years’ time. 

“ There is always one comfort,” she said ; “ the public 
may be his rival, but never any particular member of it. 
That would be too terrible ; but with Frances it can never 
happen.” 

All other members of Allan’s family had behaved much 
better to Ins wife than had that poor unhappy little Jose- 
phine. Mr. Bourchier had begged Allan to bring her to 
Redhills whenever he could do so, and Mrs. Bourchier, 
who, we may presume, had made her inquiries and been 
satisfied, brought herself to second her husband’s request. 
Even Mabel, who, for important reasons, had not been to 
town this season, as soon as this chief and indeed only 
reason could be left safely alone for a day, came up with 
her husband and called. Now Mabel was the proudest of 
the Bourchiers, and it was this very pride which would 
not permit her to leave Allan’s wife unnoticed. So she 
came up to do her duty, and found it a pleasure. There 
must have been some points very much in unison in the 
two girls’ characters — indeed, when you saw them together 
they were not unlike in person. If the meeting was for a 
moment awkward, it was but for a moment : then they 
were friends, or in a fairway to become so. Mrs. Messiter 
went away with a conditional promise that Allan should 
bring his wife to Shortlands. 

Both visits were paid. Redhills first, Shortlands after- 
ward. Tliey were of necessity short ones, and the com- 
plaint of each hostess was that Allan so monopolized his 
wife that no one saw much of her. Who could wonder at 
it? Was he not anticipating the future he dreanied i)f ? 
As with Mabel, so with her mother. Naturally a loving, 
kindly woman, she soon yielded to Frances’ sweet man- 


176 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


ner, and wished she could see more of her. At Short- 
lands she was also a success, and was admitted to a sister- 
in-law’s full rights with respect to the infant heir and pos- 
sibly future peer of England. Both Allan and Frances 
agreed those days were the very happiest they had spent 
since their marriage. 

But Allan had his wife all to himself for another short 
period before the end of the season. The singer’s dreaded 
foe, sore throat, attacked her. The most able specialist in 
London was summoned to repel the enemy. As the foe 
held out after three days’ attack the clever man brought into 
requisition a most complicated arrangement of mirrors, 
called a laryngoscope, by the aid of which he succeeded in 
examining the mechanism of that organ wdiich had the 
power of producing such divine strains. His researches 
must have been successful, as in a week’s time Mdlle. 
Francesca sang again as well as ever. But one day wheii 
she was out the specialist called on Allan. 

Now your wife is well again, I thought I’d better call 
and tell you something. Don’t be frightened, but I am not 
sure her throat is the strongest in the world. Seems ab- 
surd to say so after hearing her last night.” 

He had gone from professional curiosity to hear her, as 
he said. 

Is there any chance of her losing her voice?” asked 
Allan. 

He seemed so agitated at the news, that the doctor was 
sorry he had spoken about the matter. 

“ I can’t say, of course. There is no mischief at pres- 
ent ; but some day there may be.” 

“ And then ? ” asked Allan. 

“ Her singing, I am afraid, must come to a full stop.” 

Allan was ashamed that his face would flush ; he felt 
the speaker would misread the sign. 

‘‘Can anything be done ?” he asked. 

“Nothing whatever. It is all chance. Don’t let her 
strain her voice more than she can help. It might last for- 
ever abroad ; it is the English high pitch which will do the 
harm, if there should be harm.” 

“Thank you,” said Allan ; “ I will tell her.” 

“ To be careful ; yes. Not more. Why alarm her about 
a thing that never may occur ? The very fear of it may 
spoil her singing. I thought you should know, that’s 
all.” 

Allan followed his advice, and only begged his wife to 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


be careful — to husband her resources, in fact. She was 
grateful for his solicitude. 

“Dear Allan,” she said, “yet if I lost my gift t^^morrow 
would you be altogether sorry ? ” 

He held her hands, but said nothing. 

“ But I should grieve,” she continued ; “ so would you 
also, to keep me company.” 

Put in this way, he could cordially agree to tho proposi- 
tion. 

“ Your turn will come some day, Allan. A singer goes 
to the top of the tree and then begins to go down. When 
I am at the top I shall carve my name there, and perhaps 
leave it. Then I shall try and be as good to you as you 
are to me now.” 

Pie kissed her passionately, and forgot everything except 
that he loved her. 

Next week the public were told that arrangements had 
been made for Mdlle. Francesca to visit America at the 
end of the London season ; but the public grief at her loss 
was somewhat mitigated by the assurance that she would 
be one of the great attractions at the London opera next 
year. 

The house in St. John’s Road was given up, and Allan 
followed his wife to New York. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A STREAK OF LUCK. 

For some months — the time that Allan and his wife 
were in America — events could hardly be said to march 
with the Bourchiers left in England ; they simply appeared 
to mark time. Philip Bourchier remained at Redhills, 
living a listless, weary life. An invalid with no particular 
complaint ; one for whom doctors felt that nothing could 
be done as long as chloral was working against them. 
Let him give this up, and they would undertake to restore 
him to health. It was a promise a doctor might with 
safety make, knowing the utter impossibility of one who 
had drunk so deeply of the drug ever doing without again. 
Besides, Mr. Bourchier made no attempt to regain his 
liberty. He was ceasing — had perhaps ceased — to care 
for much in this world except sleep and temporary for- 
12 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


178 

getfulness. Chloral gave him these. He took them, and, 
being no fool, knew as he took them the price he would 
be called upon to pay for the boons. Perhaps his great- 
est desire was that the full penalty should be exacted be- 
fore the time came when he should see his children turn- 
ing from him as a murderer. That it must come, sooner 
or later, had grown to be a fixed belief with him. This 
was the true nature of his mysterious complaint ; it was 
against tins he could not struggle. Many a time he nearly 
resolved to make himself safe against the event ; and by 
day often looked ominously at the drawer which held his 
pistol, or at night was tempted to take such a dose of his 
drug that it would insure his waking no more. It was 
only the fascination that knowing the very worst has for 
everyone that prevented him. 

Although every hour of his life he regretted the deed 
of that night, he cannot, even now, be said to have been 
tortured by remorse, as remorse is commonly understood. 
The act had been a mistake, a piece of folly, yet had been 
within an ace of being a complete success. Had it not 
been for that one mysterious witness as to whose name he 
was still in utter ignorance it would have been a success. 
The whole matter would have been his own secret, and 
one, he believed, he might have borne with ease. Even 
now the crime would benefit his children in a worldly 
way, unless, as he sometimes feared, Allan, if ever he 
learned the whole truth, would refuse to enjoy what had 
been bought by blood. That Digby was a rank impostor 
had long ago been a matter of certainty to his mind. 

For some months Mr. Bourchier had not been assailed 
by any outside troubles. His son-in-law had been silent, 
and made no attempts to extort money — demands which 
were invariably coupled with thinly veiled threats. Yet 
he was not lulled into any false security on this account, 
knowing too well that while he or Digby lived that gentle- 
man would cling to him as mercilessly as the Old Man of 
the Sea. He rather dreaded the calm as forerunning a 
storm. 

The truth was, that for some little while Digby Bourchier 
had been earning, or, rather, making his living — moreover, 
as long as it lasted, a princely living. From his earliest 
youth he had been a gambler ; in a small way, as a rule — 
in fact, the only big game he had played had been with 
Mr. Bourchier, and this, so far, had gone entirely in his 
favor. It was about the time when Mdlle, Francesca sailed 


A CARDIATAL SIJV, 


m 


for America, and while he was waiting to make his last 
stroke, that Digby found an amount of monotony in his 
mode of life which made him sigh for some fresh excite- 
ment. He had friends or acquaintances of a certain sort, 
and under the auspices of one of these he was introduced 
to a small semi-private club — one of those dens of iniquity 
before which the open and above-board gambling at Monte 
Carlo appears innocent. There are many little establish- 
ments of this kind in London, usually devoted to the pur- 
suit of that very lively game baccarat. A large percentage 
of men will gamble, and as those who make it their busi- 
ness to provide them with facilities for doing so manage 
to make much money in return for their assistance, no one 
of a speculative nature need want for opportunities of 
tempting Fortune. 

This will be the more readily believed when it is under- 
stood that thes§ clubs are kept open all night ; and as each 
hour after a fixed time strikes a fine, increasing in some- 
thing like arithmetical proportion, is levied on the players, 
and as losers will pay anything cheerfully for the privilege 
of backing their bad luck, the proprietors of the estab- 
lishment find no reason to be dissatisfied. It has been cal- 
culated by an authority that in nine out of ten of these 
little clubs the whole capital of the members must, by way 
of fines and expenses, in the course of three years pass 
into the pockets of the management. 

A friend of mine — he has lost a fortune at gambling, so 
I suppose he knows — informs me that baccarat is the 
most certain game in the world to win money at, if — you 
know when to stop. As the game is so delightfully simple 
in its procedure, no doubt the scientific part of it is that 
same knowledge, when to stop. This may have come in- 
tuitively to Digby, for night after night he won considera- 
ble sums of money. No very large amount at any particu- 
lar sitting ; but forty, fifty, and once or twice a hundred, 
and once two hundred pounds. He had no reverses of 
fortune worth mentioning ; so in a short time he was en- 
vied by every one as an undoubted favorite of the blind 
goddess. 

One of the most regular attendants at the club was a gay 
young stock-broker, who played high and merrily. He de- 
faulted some months afterward, and being unable to pay 
the six-and-eightpence, for which sum in the pound the 
London Stock Exchange permits its lame ducks to once 
more re-enter its mystic precincts, he is at the present day 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


l8o 

a billiard-marker at an hotel. One night, or rather one 
morning, this young fellow accompanied Digby from the 
club, and walked for some way with him until a belated 
hansom was found. 

“ You’re an awfully lucky fellow, Bourchier,” he said, 
enviously. “ Never seem to get hit — never.” 

“ Yes, I am lucky.” Digby spoke witli the air of one 
who fancies his success is as much due to his own manage- 
ment as to chance. This is a common belief with winners. 

“ Wonder you don’t have a wire-in at the markets while 
you’re in this streak of luck. You might give me a turn, 
and make a pot yourself.” 

Digby was not averse to making money, but he had a 
fear of operations in stocks and shares — he did not know 
a great deal about them, and he fancied most people burned 
their fingers, more or less, in touching them. 

“Let me sell some Orinocos for you ; they’re bound to 
drop — its a straight tip.” 

“ I’ll think it over,” said Digby, capturing a cab. 

He kept his promise, and thought it over, all the more 
because another young stock-broker gave him similar ad- 
vice the next day — and was more certain about the coming 
drop than the first prophet. So Digby considered the mat- 
ter, and came to a resolution very creditable to his sagac- 
ity. 

Orinocos being American securities, he knew that their 
fluctuations would be controlled by his own countrymen. 
His countrymen were very smart people, and were fond 
of getting hold of English money. Had he been the gen- 
tleman who controlled the price of Orinocos his greatest 
endeavor would be to persuade the people he wished to 
mulct that the movement would be the reverse of that by 
which he intended to profit. He was sensible enough to 
laugh at the supposition that his friends knew anything 
about the matter, and he was brave enough to get together 
what money he could, and laying it down by way of 
introduction before a stock-broker of whose solvency he 
had no fear, request him, not to sell, but to buy as many 
Orinocos as the sum deposited would allow him to do for 
a stranger. His heart did quail for a moment as the re- 
spectable stock-broker looked at him curiously. 

“ I never give my clients advice,” he said, “ but I should 
like to clearly understand you — you mean buy?” 

“ Yes, buy,” he said, getting away as quickly as possi- 
ble, for fear of changing his mind. He was very nervous. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


iSi 

but comforted himself that he could not lose more than 
the sum deposited. The stock-broker would take care of 
that for his own sake. 

Lose ! Not he ! The shares were bought ; a great 
many. A week afterward some great — well, call him 
financier — made what was called restitution or conces- 
sions. Up went Oiinocos like a rocket, and the financier, 
who had loaded himself with shares, found his conscience 
cleared and his pockets fuller than ever. A clear proof 
that honesty is the best policy. 

Digby went almost off his head. He was almost 
startled when he was paid his gains, and quite patron- 
ized his broker, w’ho, when handing him the amount, less 
commission, was moved to compliment him on his fore- 
sight. It was clear that he was a heaven-born operator. 
The whole thing had come to him in a moment. He saw 
through all the plots and counter-plots of finance. As for 
poor old Bourchier, he might w'ell leave him in peace. 
In six months he felt sure he could make such a colossal 
fortune that he would be able to look back in after years 
upon the Bourchier episode as a means of earning a living 
which had served his need, but which was quite beneath a 
man of his genius. So he haunted Capel Court all day, 
watched the tapes which recorded every up and down in 
the price of shares, smoked his cigar, drank quantities of 
the speculator’s one drink, champagne, and for a while 
thought himself the smartest fellow in the world. 

For a while he was a capital client to the stock-broker, 
who, however, even at the risk of losing his business, took 
care to keep enough money in his hands to leave a go<.)d 
broad margin for possible losses. He had seen many of 
these sanguine speculators, many ephemeral successes, 
and the end of each had been the same. 

So it was with Digby Bourchier. After a time every- 
thing he touched went wrong ; and the day came when the 
civil stock-broker closed, on his responsibility, Digby’s 
last venture, and having kindly informed him that although 
the account showed, after appropriating the deposit, a small 
balance against his client, he need not trouble to pay it — 
it might go against the.profit made. He should be pleased, 
if another deposit were made, to continue to do business, 
but his rule was one to which there could be no exception 
made. 

All this happened very quickly, but not before Digby, 
in his struggles to regain his rccca.t locccs, had lost all he 


i 82 


A CARDIN-AL 


had once possessed ; had even for his last throw discounted 
at his bankers — with whom his transactions had, since he 
plunged into speculation, been large — a three months’ bill 
for a thousand pounds, accepted by Philip Tremain<' 
Bourchier. 

He was intensely disgusted at losing his money like this, 
but did not feel much anxiety about the forgery. He had 
intended to meet or redeem the bill whenever the first suc- 
cessful operation enabled him to do so. The only differ- 
ence was that Mr. Bourchier would have to find the money 
for him. That, after such a long abstention, he would be 
able to get the amount seemed beyond a doubt. He was 
clever enough to understand that he had not quite got to 
the bottom of Stock Exchange mysteries, as he once flat- 
tered himself. So he determined to accept his defeat, get 
his thousand pounds as soon as possible, and take up the 
bill. He felt that should the bank have their suspicions 
aroused, matters might be made very awkward for him. 
Several weeks must elapse before the bill would become 
due, but he thought it well to get the matter settled out of 
hand. 

The amount was larger than he had as yet asked Mr. 
Bourchier for at one time, therefore he thought it well to 
open the attack through Josephine. He expected she 
would refuse to help him, but determined that she should 
pay for that refusal. 

“Josephine,” he said, “you must write to your father by 
the next post.” 

“ I wrote only yesterday,” she replied. 

“Well, write again. He’s always glad to hear from you. 
Tell him I must have a thousand — no, say twelve hundred 
pounds — next week.” 

“ I shall do nothing of the kind,” she said, rising to leave 
the room. 

He intercepted her. 

“ You do as I say, or it will be worse for everyone.” 

“ I will not. Let me pass, if you please.” 

“ If you don’t write I will go down and ask him myself. 
He is not well, I hear, and my visit may upset him ; but 
that will be your fault.” 

She paused. The thought of her husband going down 
to her old home to wring money out of the father who had 
already found him so much was horrible. The very sight 
of Digby, she knew, was enough to annoy Mr. Bourchier 
beyond endurance- 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


*85 

I don’t see why your father should feel such a dislike 
to me,” continued Digby ; “and I’m sure I have a perfect 
riglit to what money i want.” 

“ Suppose we say nothing about rights or wrongs?” sug- 
gested Josephine, with bitter scorn in her voice. 

lie looked at her savagely. 

“ Will you send that letter ? ” he cried. 

“ I will, to^save him from being troubled by you.” 

“ At once, mind.” 

She made a gesture of assent and left him. The next 
post took the letter. 

“ My Dear Papa, 

“My husband says he must have ^1200 next week. I 
write, not because he requests me to do so, so much as to 
stop him coming to Redhills and worrying you.” 

It was not quite the letter Digby wanted written, but 
that was nothing to his wife. Her object was to warn her 
father, in case Digby should go to Redhills as he threat- 
ened. Slie had learned long ago that her husband was an 
object of hatred, sometimes she even fancied fear, to her 
father. She threw the whole blame upon her own shoul- 
ders, accusing her ill-advised marriage of being the cause 
why Mr. Bourchier could not leave Digby to shift entirely 
for himself. 

Philip Bourchier’s eyes flashed as he read Josephine’s 
letter. He had been quite right in thinking that his son- 
in-law’s long silence meant evil. The end of all this must 
^come soon. Twelve hundred pounds this week ! It might 
be twelve thousand next year ! It would be as easy to de- 
mand one sum as another — just as dangerous and difficult 
to refuse to pay it. Let him, then, refuse at once in a point- 
blank uncompromising manner, and face the worst that 
Digby could do. As we know, when he first yielded to 
the young man’s demands, and introduced him to his fam- 
ilv as their legitimate cousin, his intention was to cast, him 
adrift as soon as he fancied the time was at hand when the 
t.ale he would attempt to tell would be scouted by every- 
one as an absurd and malicious invention. Subsequent 
events had modified his plan. Digby’s great stroke in 
marrying Josephine changed the aspect of affairs. He 
felt his enemy could strike him through his child — that he 
might make her life an utterly miserable one. Except for 
this, he believed the time had come when he might venture 


i84 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


to defy his enemy ; to tell him to do his worst. Allan and 
Mabel detested the man, and would not be likely to give 
credence to his tale, or stoop to consider any evidence he 
might lay before them. Kenneth, his youngest-born, had 
nev^er, so far as he knew, seen Digby. The more he 
thought about it the more he inclined to defiance. Even 
this "application for money was encouraging. Let Digby 
do his utmost to blast his character in the eyes of the 
world or of his children, at least he could reap no benefit 
as far as money went. The moment he imparted the 
secret of his power to others that power was at an end. 
Even the support he had afforded the rascal for the last 
three years might be explained by his affection for his 
daughter. No doubt Digby’s first act of open warfare 
would be to ill-use his wife. She could at once leave, and 
no one knew how glad her father would be to have her 
once more beneath his roof. 

Yes, he would defy him. Let him come down and 
threaten as he chose, not one halfpenny should go into 
his pockets. The more he thought of it the easier the 
task seemed. He blamed himself for having remained in 
this fellow’s toils so long, when it was clear that a vigorous 
effort would free himself once and forever. He might 
even turn the tables upon him, and send him to penal ser- 
vitude as an impostor. Mr. Bourchier having nerved him- 
self for the final struggle, felt better than he had felt for a 
long, long time. The sooner Digby came to Redhills the 
better. 

So he wrote : 

“ My Dearest Josephine : 

“ The usual sum will be paid into your credit next 
quarter-day. This is more than your husband has a right 
to expect, and certainly all I am inclined to do for him." 

Josephine handed the letter to her husband without 
comment. He read it, and for a moment she thought the 
whole torrent of his rage was to be directed upon her. 
But he curbed it, and in a few minutes it settled down^ 
not to a good, honest, glowing fire, but to a corrosive, 
biting, hidden kind of heat like vitriol. 

“ So papa declines to do anything for his affectionate 
son-in-law?” He spoke slowly, with a vicious emphasis 
on each word. “ Papa is a silly old man, Josephine.” 

Josephine turned her head away, but said nothing. 


A CARDhVAL SI AT. 


185 


** He is more stupid than ever I thought him, my dear. 
An obstinate, arrogant, pig-headed old fool, in fact, my 
dear.” 

His wife gathered up her work and went to tlie door. 
The words, “ my dear,” would have been sufficient to make 
her leave him, without the abuse he was showering on her 
father. 

“ Don’t go, my darling wife ; stay and hear me complete 
my estimate of your papa. He is a ” 

The door closed behind, but not in time to prevent her 
ears being reached by some blossoms of vituperative art 
which Digby threw alter her, and perhaps directed as 
much toward her as toward her father. She went to her 
room, and, as usual, locked the door. She had never be- 
fore known her husband in a mood like this. Not only 
did she feel that the sharpest venom was lying beneath his 
W’ords, but that he meant to imply that he was able to 
make use of her for his own ends. She was really fright- 
ened, and could do nothing except lie down and weep, and 
bewail herself. Her only comfort was that her father’s 
letter did not exhibit any fear of his son-in-law. 

She had cried herself nearly stupid, or nearly to sleep, 
when the door was rapped by someone’s knuckles. Then 
she heard a loud, mocking voice. 

“ Good-by, Josephine, my dear. I am going down to 
Blacktown. I shall sleep there to-night, and get over to 
RedJiills to-morrow, the first thing. Shall I take any mes- 
sage for you ? ” 

“ No,” she said, shortly. 

“ Not even to say how well and happy you are ?” 

She disdained to reply. He rattled the door. 

“ Won’t you let me in to say good-by, my dear ? We 
are husband and wife, you know.” 

She glanced fearfully at the door, wondering if he would 
try and force it. She was more frightened than she liked 
to own ; she knew he had been drinking. Then her temer- 
ity in living the life she had lived with him for the last two 
years or more flashed before her. As yet she had never 
been afraid of him ; she despised, perhaps hated him ; but 
had never feared him. Now she realized that he was a 
strong man, and she only a weak woman. She began to 
tremble. 

Her fears were groundless, and she breathed more freely 
as she heard his retreating steps. But he came back again, 
and rapped the door to gain her attention. 


i86 


A CARD/N-AL SIiV. 


“ Finey, my darling,” she heard him say, and that pet 
name on his lips made her shudder, “are you listening? 
Answer me, or I’ll break the door down.” 

“ I am listening,” she said, fearing the consequences of 
silence. 

“ I am going down to Redhills, my pet ; and I am going 
to play the deuce with that old idiot, your papa.” 

Then he went away altogether. It was not until long 
after she had both heard and seen the cab bear him off 
that she ventured out of her room. She was terribly fright- 
ened, not knowing what was going to happen. Whatever 
the true meaning of Digby's threat, she was sure he was 
gone to do what mischief he could to her father. 

He would not get there before the next morning, so she 
telegraphed at once to Redhills, that his coming might not 
take them by surprise. She might have spared herself the 
trouble. Digby, either having no wish to do such a thing, 
or merely out of bravado, had telegraphed on his own ac- 
count, requesting, moreover, that a carriage might be sent 
to Brackley to meet him. Mr. Bourchier, true to his newly- 
designed war policy, had tore his telegram to pieces, and 
taken no notice of the request. 

“The old fool is infernally in earnest,” said Digby, with 
a black scowl, when alighting on the Brackley platform 
he found no vehicle awaiting his orders. 

This was going to be a grim affair — a battle royal. This 
was clearly shown by the fact of Mr. Bourchier omitting 
to comply with what was simply an appeal to his courtesy — 
and Mr. Bourchier was a courteous man. The absence of 
the carriage impressed Digby greatly. It seemed like a 
warrior who held his foe in such scorn that he would not 
extend the common civilities of warfare to him. He meant 
fighting, and no mistake. Let him fight and do his best — 
the more stubborn the resistance the more crushing the 
defeat. Nor in the hour of victory would he forget this 
petty slight. It rankled in his mind painfully. 

But he must get to Redhills somehow. He went to the 
Brackley Inn and was accommodated with a dingy, dissi- 
pated old phaeton, drawn by a disreputable-looking horse. 
Assisted by these, he arrived at what he pleasantly termed 
“his ancestral halls,” presenting a most undignified ap- 
pearance. He saw, or fancied he saw, a covert smile on 
the old woman’s face as she opened tlie lodge-gate — the 
horse, phaeton, and driver were such a frowsy-looking lot. 
But, then, it matters little in what way a general reaches 


A CARDmAL SIM 187 

the battle-field, so long as he gets there in time and with 
his forces in proper order. 

That he was expected was evident. The old man-ser- 
vant, Steel, to whom he liad always been an object of mis- 
trust, conducted him, without a word, to his master’s pres- 
ence. Mr. Bourchier was writing a letter, and for a minute 
did not even look up from the paper before him. Tliis 
w'as another little action meant to show how hard he in- 
tended fighting. Digby had not spoken with Philip Bour- 
chier since that interview so soon after his marriage. He 
looked at him with some curiosity, wishing to ascertain 
from a close inspection how long he had to live. His 
feelings were those of disappointment ; the excitement of 
the impending conflict lending to Mr. Bourchier a false 
appearance of health and strength. He might live for 
years and years, so he must be the paymaster, not Allan. 

“Very fine weather, Mr. Bourchier,” said Digby, eager 
to commence the attack. 

“ We are not here to discuss the weather. Kindly let 
me finish my letter.” 

He finished it, and laid it aside, evincing neither hurry 
nor interest in his visitor’s errand. Digby began to 
bully. 

“You might have sent your carriage for me, instead of 
obliging me to get over here as best I could.” 

“ I did not ask you to come. Your presence is utterly 
distasteful to me. Why should I send my carriage for 
you ? ” 

“ You know why, w^ell enough.” He spoke roughly and 
coarsely. Mr. Bourchier looked at him steadily. 

“It seems to me,” he said, “your manner has greatly 
changed — for the worse ; although I thought that im- 
possible. You drink very hard, I hear.” 

Digby grew white with rage. His enemy was taunting 
Jiim. 

“ I did not come here to be insulted.” 

“ Indeed ! Then what may you want ? ” 

“ I told you what I wanted’. Now I w’ant two thousand ; 
and I’ll have it before I leave you.” 

“Many people want money, but can’t get it,” said Mr. 
Bourchier, calmly. 

“ I’ll have it, though, and more, too, from you.” 

“ I think not. I am sorry you have wasted your time in 
coming on such a fool’s errand. I told you in my letter all 
I intend to do ; and that is only for the present.” 


i88 


A CARDhVAL SI AT. 


Then Mr. Bourchier looked straight at Digby, and Dig- 
by returned his gaze. The two quite understood each 
other. 

“ Oil ! ” said Digby, slowly, “ that’s it, is it ? ” 

“ That’s it, exactly,” said Mr. Bourchier. 

Digby turned his eyes away, and for a minute seemed in 
deep thought. He was whistling softly. 

If you have anything more to say, say it. If not, go,” 
said Mr. Bourchier, curtly. 

“ I’ve lots more to say — never fear. So you won’t fork 
out this money ? ” 

‘‘Not a farthing.” 

“ And I’m to do the worst I can ? That’s it, is it ?” 

“That’s it, exactly,” replied Mr. Bourchier for the second 
time. 

“ Wonder if you know the worst I can do ? ” 

“ As far as I see, you can endeavor to spread about a 
cock-and-bull tale which no one will believe. The time 
you have kept it to yourself stops that, and your three 
years’ connection with my family will not add weight to 
your assertions.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Digby, “you are smart.” 

“You will, for the sake of wounding me, probably go to 
my children and try and get them to believe I am a mur- 
derer. I don’t think your word — the word of an impostor 
like you — will count for much. That, as far as you are 
concerned, is the worst you can do.” 

“ Seems pretty much so as you put it,” said Digby, nod- 
ding his head approvingly. 

“ I, on my side,” continued Mr. Bourchier, “ shall at 
once apply for a warrant against you, for pretending you 
are Digby Bourchier, and obtaining money from me under 
that name. That will mean penal servitude.” 

“ But there’ll be a trial, and things come out.” 

“ What things ? How can you get them out ? Even 
then, what difference will it make to you ? Unless you can 
prove you are Digby Bourchier, you are certain to be sent 
to Portland.” 

“Guess you are smart,” said Digby. “Why didn’t you 
think of this before ?” 

Why not, indeed ? It all seemed so simple now that 
Mr. Bourchier was wondering the same thing. 

“ If what you say is iaw,” continued Digby, “ I’d better 
bolt. I’ll go home and thrash Josephine a little first— it 
will be a satisfaction.” 


A CARnijVAL SJiV. 


189 


*‘You blackguard!” cried Mr. Bourchier, spring-ine 
from his seat. 

“ Thought I’d have you there,” said the cynical villain. 
‘‘ Now, suppose I go off quietly, and leave you all in peace, 
what will you do for me ? ” 

Mr. Bourchier’s heart leaped. It seemed too good to be 
true. His impulse was to tell him lie would do nothing 
for him ; but it is not well to drive a foe to desperation. 

“You execute a deed of separation with Josephine, write 
me a letter stating you are not the man you pretend to be, 
hand all the certificates over to me, and I will pay your 
passage to Australia, and send out ^2,000 to one of the 
banks there to be paid on your arrival.” 

Digby cliuckled. It was a sound Mr. Bourchier did not 
like. What right had a conquered foe to cliuckle ? 

“ What do you say ? ” he asked, sharply, fully prepared 
to double or even treble the sum he named. 

“ Oh, I have lots to say. Guess you’re no end fond of 
your children ? ” 

“You fool,” said Mr. Bourchier, bitterly ; “ it is only for 
their sakes tliat I have yielded to you one inch.” 

“Ah, I like to see affection like that. There’s Allan, 
now — a fine young fellow, although he hates me.” 

“ He knows you are an impostor.” 

“ So do you. Of course, I am not Digby Bourchier.” 

“I never thought you were.” 

This frankness was alarming. 

“Oh, yes ; I’m an impostor, and so are you, Mr. Bour- 
chier — so are most of us. But we were talking of Allan. I 
rather like Allan, and mean to do him a good turn.” 

Mr. Bourchier felt none the less startled because he was 
quite in the dark as to where all this was tending. 

“ He’s a happy man, Allan is. Married to the loveliest 
girl in the world. I hear he worships the ground she 
treads on. Fonder of her even than I am of Josephine.” 

His listener fancied he caught the drift of what was 
coming. Allan’s wife was to be used for his purposes. 
Well, if there was anything against her, Allan must bear 
it — he chose and married her with his eyes open. Yet Mr. 
Bourchier felt he should be slow to believe anything this 
jeering villain said in her disfavor. 

“ I knew Allan’s wife intimately for many years, as well 
as I knew her father, John Boucher.” 

“Her father, John Boucher!” repeated Mr. Bour- 
chier. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


290 

He was bep;inning to wonder if this man was the devil 
incarnate, come on earth to punish him. 

“ Yes, her father, John Boucher — the man you shot. 
Don’t say I’m not a kind-hearted fellow. I shall be able 
to tell Allan that his marriage makes the estates quite 
safe.” 

Mr. Bourchier grew livid. He could not speak. 

“Poor Frances has been trying to find me for four 
years. She knows 1 -^.n tell her all about her father’s 

death. She is most an ^ous to hear all about it. Till 
now I have kept out of her sight. As soon as she returns 
from America I shall renew my acquaintance with her. 
How delighted she will be with my news — how grateful 
Allan will be to the man who took John Boucher out of 
the way, and how happy the husband and wife will be 
ever afterward. Mysteries are bad in families.” 

Mr. Bourchier kept on saying to himself this must be 
the devil. He saw in a second, as by a flash of lightning, 
Allan’s future happiness wrecked the moment this man 
met his wife ; he shuddered as he thought of his son hurl- 
ing reproaches at him as the destroyer of all he cared to 
live for. It was too terrible — too awful ! This time he 
was utterly crushed. The end was near, but he must at 
any cost stave it off for a little while. Not for himself — 
it had gone past that — but for Allan. At any sacrifice 
this must be kept from Allan. 

“ I told you I had lots more to say,” said Digby, with a 
mocking smile. “ I’m going back now. Think it all 
over, and send me the money before Allan comes back.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

SEEKING AN EXPLANATION. 

A fortnight after Digby’s interview with Mr. Bouchier 
Mdlle. Francesca and her husband returned from America. 
The expedition had been a highly satisfactory one to all 
except Allan. The anomalous position in which a country 
gentleman, sighing for the calm pleasures of married life, 
is placed as the husband of a prhna donna, became painfully 
evident to him during his wife’s triumphant tour through 
the States. The days spent on the return voyage were 
periods of unbroken delight, but to the remainder of the 


A CARDIJVAL S/AT. 


191 


time he ever afterward looked back with something like a 
shudder. He had found much to complain of in England, 
but in America matters were ten times worse. There 
private life seemed to have vanished entirely. 

Mdlle. Francesca was in the hands of very clever people, 
people who thoroughly understood the way to insure a 
transatlantic success. The peculiarity of the Americans 
appears to be, that although critical enough to refuse to 
accept mediocrity for genius, however much mediocrity 
may be puffed and praised, genius without these adventi- 
tious aids is apt to be overlooked or decried. This is a 
curious but well-known fact to all caterers to our other- 
wise shrewd cousins across the water. 

This process of puffing and praising, of going before 
and preparing the way, of stimulating the public curiosity 
by a hundred and one little personal paragraphs, narrating 
some adventure, extravagance, or eccentricity of the ap- 
proaching star, is an art in itself — an art of which the 
masters are few and far between, and valued accordingly. 
Their services are eagerly sought after by those who have 
a new and great attraction to offer to the American public. 
The organizers of the present venture had secured the ser- 
vices of one who knew his business to a nicety. So that 
shortly after his arrival in America Allan might have 
gleaned enough from the various papers to compile sev- 
eral interesting biographies of his wife. Many of these 
paragraphs he was able to look at from the comical side 
and exchange pleasantries with Frances as to her adven- 
turous life ; but there were others which contained sly 
hints and veiled insinuations, which made his blood boil 
and set him longing for the sanctity and seclusion of 
private life. 

The whole affair was most ably managed. It was not 
until she had sung and had fully justified the appearance 
of the laudatory paragraphs that the fact of Mdlle. Fran- 
cesca being an American was officially announced. This 
stroke, now that success seemed assured, was a clever one. 
Enthusiasm rose to a high patriotic pitch. Even the sing- 
ers born under the wings of the American eagle were go- 
ing to whip creation as far as music was concerned. One 
paper gravely announced that Francesca would disappoint 
the Britishers next season, as she was resolved to remain 
in America in order to sing “The Star-spangled Banner” 
to a New York audience on the next 4th of July, and 
equally absurd statements were published in other papers. 


192 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


And the intendewers ! Allan began to dread the sight 
of men lest one of them should turn out to be an inter- 
viewer. The new discovery was at its full height. The 
interviewers interviewed Frances w’henever they could and 
the organizers of the tour whenever they chose. Allan 
was not spared, shining as he did with a reflected light — 
so they interviewed Allan. It was no use his declining 
the honor ; in that case they said they had interviewed 
him, which answered every purpose. 

As Mdlle. Francesc^i’s husband, he was an object of great 
interest, and having spent a very commonplace, unevent- 
ful life, it was necessary for the sake of the public that the 
life he ought to have led should be substituted for the real 
one. It was but natural he should be depicted as the heir to 
an immense estate, a leader of fashion, a poet, an artist, a 
ruined gambler, a successful member of the ring who had 
won ^80,000 over the last Derby ; that he should have 
wooed and won Francesca in a most romantic way ; that 
he should have killed a couple of rivals in duels, which 
were described with exquisite accuracy. Had Allan want- 
ed an easy road to fame or notoriety he had most certainly 
found it by his marriage with Mdlle. Francesca. 

He had sense enough to see he was powerless, but not 
sense enough to refrain from looking at or troubling him- 
self about the paragraphs and accounts given by inter- 
viewers. He read them all, feeling that if he neglected to 
do so he must fancy they would be more vexing and in 
worse taste. He read in the papers of every large city 
they were bound to an elaborate description of his wdfe, 
her dresses, her jewels, what she ate or drank, her mode 
of life from the hour she rose to the hour she went to 
rest. It stopped there, although one correspondent vent- 
ured to delight his readers with a description of the color, 
material, and pattern of Mdlle. Francesca’s dressing-gown 
and combing-jacket. 

And the travelling about, the whirl from one city to an- 
other, the theatres and concert-rooms, the living in huge, 
overgrown hotels — he hated it all. Again and again his 
thoughts turned to Red hills. He pictured a clear, bright, 
frosty day ; the ride, drive, or walk they would have" to- 
gether ; the return to dinner ; the pleasant evening spent 
together afterward. Or he turned to London — saw him- 
self in Parliament, working hard to make a name ; saw his 
wife sharing his ambition, aiding him with her advice — 
a queen of society, perhaps, but Mrs. Allan Bourchier, 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


193 

not Mdlle. Francesca. Would the good time come at 
last ? 

Yet, he would have undone nothing. He was, he told 
himself, amply repaid for all annoyances by the prize he 
had won ; for as yet not a cloud had come between them. 
In the short intervals of quiet they could snatch they were 
as bride and bridegroom still. 

The American venture, with its trumpetings, puffings, 
flowings, and successes, came to an end, and Allan felt his 
spirits rise as lie bade a glad but ungrateful adieu to the 
shores which had welcomed his wife so heartily, made so 
much of her, and parted with her so reluctantly. He 
never wished to visit America again in a like capacity. 

They had settled, upon their arrival in England, to go 
at once to Redhills. No one was more entitled to a holi- 
day than Frances; Allan also deserved one. They were 
to stay at Redhills a week or two, then pay a visit to 
Mabel at Shortlands, and then a house must be taken in 
town, and Frances must prepare for the London opera 
season. - 

Her friend, the manager, was delighted to ascertain 
that, so far as was known, the fear he expressed to Allan 
was not to be realized. Allan, on his side, was disap- 
pointed. He had counted on the maternal affection as 
likely to be a powerful agent in inducing his wife to 
abandon her career. So it is that one man’s pleasure 
works another man’s pain. 

When Mr. Bourchier received the letter which, preced- 
ing them across the ocean, told him they were coming to 
Redhills, he was pleased. If happiness and joy in living 
had left him, his love for his children still remained ; and 
he would at least be able to see his eldest son in the 
height of newly-found bliss. He had become quite rec- 
onciled to the marriage, only sharing Allan’s hope that 
in time Frances would tire of public life and settle down as 
the wife of a country gentleman. He believed she would 
do so, having formed, during the short time he had seen 
her, a very high, but only a fair estimate of her character. 
A man must be indeed evil to be able to discern no good 
in others ; and bad as Mr. Bourchier has shown himself to 
be, he was not entirely bad — like George Manders, for in- 
stance. Yet, since the arrival of that letter, everything 
was changed. How could he meet this' girl, sit at the 
same table with her, hear her speaking to him with the 
affection due to her husband’s father, knowing that his 

13 


194 


A CARDIN'AL SIM 


crime had rendered her fatherless, and worse still, that the 
moment she and Digby Bourchier — or whatever the vil- 
lain’s true name might be— met everything would be 
revealed ? The only chance of delaying or averting the 
catastrophe was by complying with his demands. 

So the money was sent. Not the two tl^ousand pounds 
asked for, but fifteen hundred ; and as he posted a bank- 
er’s draft for that amount to his son-in-law, Mr. Bourchier 
felt that it was but a sop to Cerberus, and that, sooner or 
later, it would be a question between ruin and exposure. 

Digby, who felt certain that his money would be forth- 
coming, returned home in the very best of spirits. He 
told Josephine nothing as to the failure or the success of 
his expedition, and she did not condescend to inquire ; but 
the way he laughed to himself, and the general air of self- 
satisfaction he wore, made her long to hear news from 
home. She wrote, begging her mother to send tidings of 
her father’s health. 

Mrs. Bourchier replied, and from her letter Josephine 
was able to gather that there had been a most trying scene 
between her husband and her father. Mrs. Bourchier 
wrote that her husband had been completely prostrated 
by whatever had occurred at the interview, and besought 
Josephine not to allow Digby to visit Redhills again on 
any pretence. The poor girl smiled as she read this re- 
quest. What voice had she in her husband’s comings or 
goings ? 

A few days afterward her husband broke open a letter, 
and showed her the order for the money. His exultant 
and triumphant manner as he did so was hateful to her. 

“ There,” he said, “ you see that I know how to get over 
papa. You couldn’t have asked him the right way. He 
is very easy to manage, if you know how.” 

She was surprised and mortified. She felt the money 
had in some way been wrung from her father, and feared 
whether her letter had done anything to increase the force 
brought to bear upon him — whether he had been entreated 
for her sake. 

‘•1 don’t understand,” she said. “To me it seems 
shameful. I hope you did not demand it on my ac- 
count ? ” 

“ Not in the least — entirely for myself. I shall ask for 
more some day.' Papa will be too sensible, I hope, to re- 
fuse again.” 

Josephine by this time had grown to loathe her husband 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


195 

It seemed to her that every day, every hour, revealed some 
new meanness of character, hinted at some new vice. 
From the end of the first year after their marriage until 
lately slie had felt more contempt and indifference than 
anything else. Her idea had been that he was a pitiful 
schemer, who had, married her for his own ends by a sub- 
terfuge. She had been deceived and wronged, but the 
mistake was hers, and it was her place to pay the penalty. 
Her father had conveyed to her the idea tliat for some rea- 
son he wished her to continue to live with her husband as 
long as she could bear it — so she had always looked upon 
returning to Redhills as a last resource— one to which she 
must not resort until matters grew beyond endurance. 

Now that keen, honest hatred, not unmingled with ter- 
ror, had taken possession of her, her thoughts again and 
again turned to flight. But if she fled from him could he 
compel her to return — would he do so ? She fancied that 
in some way she was needful to him to further the success 
of his schemes. 

This extortion of money from her father troubled her 
very much. Why should it have been paid ? Again and 
again the thought came to her that it had been done for 
her sake, to save her from something or other. If she re- 
turned to Redhills would it not save her father the annoy- 
ance of future applications of this nature — or at least give 
him the power to refuse them ? And what if she could 
absolutely free herself from this man — free herself by law 
— be once more her own mistress — perhaps in a few years 
forget this dreary episode, and be happy again ? Her face 
flushed at the thought. But it must be complete, absolute 
freedom. No judicial separation, or arrangement of that 
kind — she must be rid of every turn of the galling bond — • 
every link of her self-forged fetters. Then the way of ar- 
riving at this happy consummation became her daily 
thought. 

She had little doubt, indeed she was almost certain, that 
Digby’s conduct since her marriage would not bear inves- 
tigation. Letters in women’s handwriting had come to 
him over and over again. With cynical indifference, and 
perhaps with a wish to wound her, he had opened and 
read them in her very presence. That the needful evi- 
dence in one direction might readily be obtained was 
pretty clear ; but this was not enough. So many divorce 
cases are reported now that few women are unaware that 
the relief that can be granted is only partial, unless acts 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


596 

of cruelty or desertion can also be proved. As yet Digby 
had not offended in these respects. Once or twice he had 
threatened personal violence, but had never really laid his 
hand upon her. Lately she thought his temper had been 
under less control, and she felt that several times his hands 
were twitching to strike her. Sooner or later she felt sure 
he would do so. Could she wait for it ? Could she stay, 
expecting to be called upon to submit to such a degrada- 
tion ? Yes, anything, everything she could bear for the 
sake of the freedom for which she was now beginning to 
long with a passionate longing. 

Digby, delighted to find that his new departure had been 
so successful in bringing Mr. Bourchier upon his knees, 
went off to the city to change his draft and redeem that 
bit of paper, which might, under certain circumstances, 
become troublesome. His proper course would have been 
to have paid the bank order to his credit at his banker’s, 
and drawn a check against it to retire the bill ; but a man 
of his stamp always has a fancy for absolutely handling 
the money he has gained — the success seems so much more 
apparent. So he went to the bankers who were drawn 
upon, and in exchange for the draft, which was at sight, 
received fourteen one hundred pound notes and a hun- 
dred pounds in smaller money. With his pocket full of 
money and his heart full of good resolutions he went across 
to his own bankers. The bank was full of customers, and 
as he waited his turn temptation assailed him — Digby 
always yielded to temptation. Why should he pay away 
a thousand pounds or more of this hard-earned money ? 
Hard-earned he felt it to be, as he formed a just and proper 
estimate of brain-work. What did he care about the bill ? 
A few days before it came to maturity he would coolly 
write Mr. Bourchier, and tell him he must provide for it. 
It would be then just about the time when he should feel 
justified in making another demand for black-mail. So 
he turned on his heel, walked out of the bank, lunched at 
a noted house of entertainment, and having finished a 
bottle of champagne, felt very bold and sanguine ; in fact, 
as confident as a man who has an unfailing gold mine to 
dig at. 

His luck seemed to him so good at present that it is no 
wonder, with fifteen hundred pounds in his breast pocket, 
that he began to feel once more drawn toward his recent 
pursuit, “bulling and bearing.’’ Although he had vowed 
never to gamble again in this manner, gamblers, it is welh 


A CARDIN-AL SIN. 


197 


Icnown, have a peculiar facility for absolving themselves 
from their oaths. He was very shortly dallying with the 
price-lists in the daily papers, and so soon as he expe- 
rienced the proper invigorating effects of his champagne, 
found it a very simple matter-of-course proceeding to go 
over to his stock-broker’s, and having fulfilled that gentle- 
man’s requirements, to plunge boldly into the merry old 
game again. He bore no malice toward the respectable 
broker who would give him no length of tether ; he, Digby, 
would have acted exactly in the same way had the positions 
been reversed. So with revived hopes he made his new 
ventures. Then he took the train and ran down to a cer- 
tain place about twenty miles from town, where for some 
months past he had rented a quiet little house, surrounded 
by a large but ill-kept garden. He was an object of curi- 
osity in this village ; people shook their heads at each 
other as he walked through the street, and wondered who 
and what he was. But it was very little he cared for their 
looks, and they were welcome to wonder their heads 
off. 

A few days after Mr. Bourchier had paid the last hush 
money, Allan and Frances returned from America. They 
came from Liverpool to London, where tliey stayed a 
couple of days and Mdlle. Francesca saw the people she 
was bound to see ; then they Avent down to the west. 

Frances had liked Mr. Bourchier very much on the oc- 
casions she had seen him. She was greatly distressed to 
find how ill he was — what a prematurely old man he seemed 
to have become ; but her greatest trouble was that she 
could not conceal from herself the fact that the welcome 
he gave her was strained and strangely cold, and that he 
appeared anxious to shun and avoid her. He was always 
courteous and kind, wishing to do everything to make her 
visit a pleasant one, but she noticed that if she came into 
a room where he sat alone, he left her in a very short time, 
excusing himself as best he could. He "did not kiss her 
upon her arrival — his hand lay cold and lifeless in hers. 
He seemed disinclined to talk to her — in a word, he was 
evidently uneasy in her society. No doubt much of this 
might be laid to the door of his wretched health, but much 
more remained which cpuld only be accounted for in one 
way — that was, Mr. Bourchier did not like her. 

She was much distressed — much mortified. To Allan, 
the way in which she had won the good graces of his loving 
but stern and austere father had been a source of the 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


198 

greatest gratification. With his mother it was a matter of 
course. Mrs. Bourchier’s kind and soft nature made pro- 
pinquity conquest. 

On the occasion of the first visit paid to Redhills, Mr. 
Bourchier had gone even out of his way to show his appre- 
ciation of his son’s wife. Now everythingnvas diiferent. 
Allan, as yet, suspected no change ; for Frances noticed 
that in the company of her husband and herself Mr. Bour- 
chier strove to be the same as of old ; it was only in Allan’s 
absence that the coldness and shrinking from her mani- 
fested themselves. What had she done to divert the course 
of his regard ? 

It might be just possible that some of those American 
announcements, the ones which had annoyed both Allan 
and her, had reached him. She knew he was a proud man 
• — proud of his position, his family, his name. Blameless 
as she felt herself to be, she did not blame him for being 
vexed by the annoyances which were inseparable from a 
public career. It wounded her to think that the absurd 
gossip of a sensational American paper should have made 
any change in his sentiments toward her. If only for 
Allan’s sake, she must know why Mr. Bourchier had 
changed toward her. 

So one afternoon, when her husband was away on some 
masculine sport, she tapped at the door and entered the 
library where Mr. Bourchier sat all alone. Fle was near 
the window, gazing listlessly and wearily at the landscape 
it commanded. Redhills stood very high, and although 
Redton village, which nestled under the hill, could not be 
seen, the top of the spire of Redton church was just vis- 
ible ; it was in this direction Mr. Bourchier was gazing 
when Frances entered the room. 

For two or three seconds he did not look at the new- 
comer, thinking, most likely, that she was a servant who 
could wait his pleasure. Then he turned and found him- 
self face to face^vith Frances. 

No one was less an actress off the stage than Frances ; 
she felt the approaching interview was a serious matter, 
and therefore looked serious ; she was seeking Mr. Bour- 
chier with a purpose, so purpose was clearly written on 
her face. As usual, she was standing erect, making use 
of every inch of her tall, commanding figure. Seeing her 
thus, is it any wonder that Mr. Bourchier thought that the 
hour was come, and the sword about to fall — any wonder 
he shuddered visibly, and turned his head away, What^ 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


199 


ever she might be going to say, he felt he could not meet 
her eyes. 

His action was so obvious that Frances paused discon- 
certed — a red Hush swept over her cheek. What could 
be the meaning of this evident aversion ? Her first impulse 
was to leave him, but for Allan’s sake she must control 
herself and endeavor to remove his dislike, or at least as- 
certain the reason for it. 

Mr. Bourchier’s innate courtesy came to his rescue. He 
was bound to greet her, and lead her to a chair. Then he 
made some trivial remark about the weather, and even 
thanked her for coming to see him. He saw in a second 
he had been needlessly alarmed. The worst had not come 
yet. 

She took a chair beside him. 

“I may stay with you a little ? ” she said ; “ I am not 
disturbing you ? ” 

“ Certainly not. I was doing nothing except looking 
out of the window.” 

“Of course, I have come to ask you something,” she 
said. “ You will answer me truly, please, for it is a grave 
matter to me.” 

Yes — as far as he could he w^ould answer her truly in 
everything except one thing — Heaven forbid it should be 
in reference to that she came ! 

“You will know best whether I am fanciful or not,” con- 
tinued Frances, speaking with much earnestness and sweet- 
ness, “ but this visit to you has not been so pleasant as the 
last one was.” 

“ I am really sorry to hear you say so.” 

Mr. Bourchier spoke in a way that showed he meant 
what he said. 

“ Yes,” said Frances ; “ and I have come to ask you why. 
I was proud to think I was winning the regard of my hus- 
band’s people, but this time I find you, his father, are — ■ 
how can I describe it — at least changed somewhat toward 
me.” 

Mr. Bourchier scarcely knew how to reply. 

“ Have I done anything to offend you ? ” continued 
Frances. 

“ Nothing — nothing. You are goodness itself.” 

“ It can’t be that I do not love Allan enough. You must 
know that.” 

“You must put it all down to your own fancy, my dear 
— or to my bad health and unfortunate manner,” 


200 


A CA/^BAVAL SIN. 


“ I have tried to do so, but I cannot succeed. Please to 
forgive my questions, but I have been so troubled.” 

“There is no cause for you to be troubled. Remember 
I am not a very lovable man.” 

“You love Allan and your other children. Why not 
love me ? I would be a daughter to you if you would let 
me.” 

She gazed anxiously into his face. He was silent and 
shunned her gaze. His eyes were looking through the 
window, and resting on the spire of Redton church. 

“ I have no father — no mother — not a relative in the 
world,” she said. “ I hoped, I thought that I might find 
them with Allan’s father, mother, and relatives.” 

Frances was the petitioner, not Mr. Bourchier, as he 
feared was to be the case when she first entered. He was 
bound to answer her, bound to do what he could to make 
her happy. 

“ Frances,” he said, forcing his eyes to meet hers, “be- 
lieve me when I tell you that we all love you, and would 
look upon you as a daughter of the house. I can but 
have changed in your fancy. I am not demonstrative, I 
am ill and perhaps tired of life ; but I love Allan, and 
when I say he has chosen wisely and well I feel that I can 
say no more, and you will be satisfied.” 

He spoke earnestly, and his words carried conviction. 
She had been tormenting herself needlessly. She rose 
much relieved ; indeed, she felt quite gay and happy. 

“ I am so glad,” she said, “ but I know you will under- 
stand the feeling which made me wish to be reassured. 
Now kiss me and tell me you forgive me, and I shall go 
away very happy.” 

She put her face toward him ; he could not refuse to 
kiss her after his last words. His lips brushed her fore- 
head for a second, and with difficulty he suppressed a 
shiver as he thought whose forehead it was. Her glad, 
true eyes looked into his own, and she seemed to expect 
he would say something. 

“ We will never recur to this subject,” he said, then with 
a change of voice, almost to passion, “ Frances, you will 
always love my boy — through good and evil report — pov- 
erty or riches — glory or shame — through crime, even if 
crime should stand between you — you will always love 
him — even if he turned from you — you would still love 
him.” 

‘‘ As I love him now — so I shall always love him.” 


4 CARDINAL SIN. 


20C 


She spoke solemnly, wondering at his emotion. 

“ You swear it,” he said. 

“ There is no need — but I swear it,” and, as if to seal 
the vow, she leaned her brow once more to him. He 
kissed her this time without hesitation— then she left him. 

He sat for an hour or more looking wearily out of his 
window — ever in the same direction. But for one thing, 
he could have loved Frances even as he loved his own 
daughters ; but he knew as he mused and looked the 
while at the spire of the neighboring church, that its 
shadow at this very moment fell upon a humble grave that 
bore no name to show who or what its tenant was — that 
grave stood and would always stand between him and his 
son’s wife. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

COUPLED WITH CRUELTY, 

Philip Bourchier had never for an instant doubted the 
truth of Digby’s assertion that Frances was John Boucher’s 
daughter. He was gradually becoming superstitious. He 
saw how, in every way, events had turned against him since 
that fatal night— how, when everything had seemed hushed 
up and at an end, this witness, or second-hand witness, to 
every act of his on that occasion had appeared and spoiled 
everything — how he had been punished through the only 
medium that could really wound him — his love for his chil- 
dren. Seeing and thinking of all this, he began to believe 
in destiny ; and it appeared the most natural thing that 
Allan should have chosen for his wife Frances Boucher. 

Had his feelings been less those of a fatalist, there 
was plenty to confirm Digby’s words. When Allan mar- 
ried Frances, it is doubtful whether he knew anything 
about her family ; he certainly troubled little about it. 
She had told him her ancestors were respectable trades- 
men, but that she was absolutely alone in the world. After 
their marriage she had related” all she knew respecting the 
mysterious disappearance of her father ; had even made 
Allan promise to assist her in her search for Manders. 
Allan had seen Mr. Trenfield on the matter, and found 
that gentleman so sure that John Boucher had been mur- 
dered for plunder, that he looked upon any researches as 
hopeless. Mr. Trenfield told him that the man had left 


ao2 


A CARDmAL S/M 


his bankers with some valuable property in his possession; 
no one knew of what it consisted, but it must have been 
valuable. Since then he had not been heard of. It may 
be that Mr. Trenfield spoke of James Boucher, of New- 
ham, but the name awoke no suspicion in Allan’s mind. 
He was but a child when the last lawsuit took place, and 
the matter was tabooed in the family. The less such 
things are talked about the better. 

On her side Frances said little about her forefathers. 
She was too sensible not to know that, as simply the 
daughter of a tradesman, she was not a proper match for 
Allan Bourchier. As Mdlle. Francesca, who would, she 
believed, in time be known as one of the greatest singers of 
the day,, she felt she was any man’s equal. Leaving her 
beauty and great gifts out of the question, and looking 
only from a pecuniary point of view, she would in a few 
years be earning a princely income. She was not ashamed 
of her forbears, but there is often as much vulgarity in 
flaunting one’s humble origin in people’s faces as in re- 
sorting to pitiful but transparent expedients to conceal it. 
Had she been asked, the information would have been at 
once given ; not being asked, she did not volunteer it. 
To Allan she often spoke of her father, and always ex- 
pressed the gratitude she felt to him for having given her 
an education so much above the station in life he occupied. 

At Redhills, by common consent, no one now spoke of 
Mr. Bourchier’s encounter with the midnight assassin. 
Soon after it occurred, it became apparent to his family 
•that any allusion to the affair vexed him, so it was rapidly 
.becoming a tradition. Frances had heard that he had once 
been compelled to shoot a man in self-defence ; but hav- 
ing in her girlhood’s days seen several men who had been 
credited with the same interesting exploit, asked very few 
<luestions about the matter. She had been told the event 
occurred several years ago ; but had she known the very 
date it would have suggested nothing to her. She knew 
that her father met his death somewhere in London, hav- 
ing been traced from Newham thither ; so, if Digby could 
only be kept quiet and away from Frances, the secret 
might be a secret forever. Is it then strange that Mr. 
Bourchier sacrificed his money to this end ! 

When the second visit to Redhills was paid, he had asked 
Allan some particulars about his wife’s father. Allan told 
him all he knew ; and Mr. Bourchier, aware of circum- 
stances of which his son was ignorant, saw that his tor- 


A CARDIN-AL S/JV, 


203 


mentor’s narrative was true in every respect. He was also 
able to learn the self-styled Digby Bourchier’s true name. 
He could be none other than the George Manders whom 
Frances was so eager to find. But it was little use to him 
learning who the impostor really was. 

“I shouldn’t trouble in the matter, Allan,” he said. 

He was certainly murdered ; and after this interval no 
good can be gained, even if the truth is found out.” 

“ I am very much of your opinion ; but mv poor s:irl is 
so anxious.” 

“ Well, at any rate, if you find this fellow Manders, hear 
his tale yourself before he sees Frances. Then you can 
judge if she should know the truth.” 

“ Yes ! ril do that,” said Allan. 

This counsel cost Mr. Bourchier much to give. He was 
lying to his son — a terrible thing for a proud man to be 
obliged to do. He hoped, if the truth must come out, it 
would come to Allan first. He might forgive him and 
pity him ; Frances, he felt, would never forgive. 

The sojourn at Redhills came to an end. Allan and his 
wife went from there to Shortlands. Frances was not 
sorry at the change. Do what she would she could not 
entirely throw off the feeling that something or another 
lay between her and Mr. Bourchier. At Shortlands all 
went merrily. Mabel found herself every day growing 
more and more affectionately disposed to her new sister, 
while her husband looked upon her as a being from an- 
other sphere. He was a simple, kind-hearted gentleman, 
with a great reverence for genius. To have such a woman 
as Mdlle. Francesca beneath his roof, was to him a great 
honor. Lords and ladies were every-day guests, but a 
prima donna was a rarity. So F ranees was made much of ; 
and Allan would have been quite happy had it not been 
for the approaching trials of the operatic season. How- 
ever, bad as they might be in London, they would be noth- 
ing as compared with his American experiences. 

“ I hope you will see something of Josephine in town,” 
said Mabel to Frances. It was on the day before the visit 
ended, and the ladies were sitting alone. 

“ I will try to do so/’ answered Frances. 

“ She is a dear little thing ; but oh ! what a sad life she 
has. A husband she must abhor, and no baby to brighten 
her life.” 

Here Mrs. Messiter kissed the future peer, who lay ip 
her arms, as if he were but an ordinary baby. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


ao4 

“ I will write to her as soon as we are settled,” said 
Frances, “ and beg her to come and see me often. I woqld 
call, but Allan does not wish it.” 

“ No — he is quite right there. Her husband is a bad 
man. She will understand why you do not call.” 

“Try and make her love you, Frances,” continued 
Mabel. “ She will be happier.” 

“I will, if I can,” said Frances, who remembered that 
Josephine had not been so easy to get on with as Mabel. 

Allan also thought of the unhappy Josephine as they 
were returning to town. 

“You will write to Josephine, dear !” he said. 

“ Of course I will ; but, Allan, much as I should wish it, 
I fear she will not be great friends with me — I have tried, 
but I don’t think she likes me.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! How can she help liking you ?” 

Frances laughed. “ Every one does not see with your 
eyes, Allan.” 

“With Mabel at your feet,” said Allan, “it is a matter 
of absolute certainty with that loving little girl, Josephine.’' 

“ Very well ; I will do my utmost, but don’t be disap- 
pointed if I fail.” 

“ I have not the least fear of being disappointed.” 

As soon as a suitable house was found, and Mrs. Melville 
drawn once more from her semi-obscurity to rule its 
domestic fortunes, Frances wrote a long kind letter to 
Josephine, begging her to come and see her, to stay with 
her if she would ; in fact, to step into all the rights and 
sympathies of sisterhood if she felt so disposed. Joseph- 
ine, who had heard all about the visits to Redhills and 
Shortlands, felt quite willing to accept these offers, which 
were made in well-chosen words. Her husband was in 
the room as she was reading the letter. His quick, sus- 
picious glance caught the characteristic handwriting, 
which he knew almost as well as his own. 

“ Dear Allan and his beautiful wife back in town, I sup- 
pose,” he said. 

Josephine started. “ How did you know ? ” she asked. 
“Do you know her writing?” 

He had made a slip. So long as Mr. Bourchier com- 
plied with his demands, his greatest wish was to keep out 
of Frances’ way. The explosion which would result from 
contact would no doubt blow up Mr. Bourchier, but would 
certainly put an end to his power over that gentleman. 
He was even thinking of leaving London for a few months. 


A CARDmAL SIAT. 


205 


'‘I saw the signature,” he said. 

This was a lie, and Josephine knew it to be one. In no 
possible way could he have read the signature. The very 
excuse showed her that he must be acquainted with her 
correspondent’s handwriting. All the distrust which his 
former remarks had given rise to came back with redoubled 
force. Her husband and her brother’s wife were in some 
way known to each other. She hoped her suspicions 
might be groundless, but while she had suspicions she 
could not accept the kindly hand which was stretched 
toward her — could not accept it unreservedly and with full 
trust. Poor Josephine having been so cruelly deceived 
lierself had entered upon that stage in which the wronged 
party views every stranger with an amount of suspi- 
cion. 

She answered Frances’ letter and promised to call. This 
promise she redeemed in a few days’ time, and the kind, 
frank welcome she received almost lulled her shapeless 
fears to rest. Digby must have been making insinuations 
for his own malicious ends ; but yet she could not get 
over his recognition of the handwriting. Could she have 
forgotten this, she felt she could have loved Frances as a 
sister — have learned to lean upon her stronger cliaracter 
as upon a tower of strength. 

Frances on her side tried her best to win the poor little 
woman’s confidence and. affection. She was not accus- 
tomed to find such a task difficult. To call anyone her 
friend was always to have the favor she extended readily 
accepted. And yet she was going out of her way to get at 
the bottom of Josephine’s heart without the success she 
anticipated. Hers was a proud nature, and she certainly 
would not have taken so much trouble had it not been for 
Allan’s sake and at his request. She did not fail entirely; 
if Josephine was hard to win, her doubts were dying a 
natural death ; and after having, at Frances’ solicitation, 
paid three or four visits to Allan’s new home, she was in a 
fair way to succumb entirely to Frances’ sisterly and 
sympathetic manner. 

“Did you ever meet my husband?” asked Josephine 
one day when calling on her sister-in-law. 

“ Never that I know of. Allan asked me the same 
question before we were married.” 

Josephine blushed slightly, well knowing at whose in- 
stigation the question had been put. 

“Why do you ask ?” said Frances, noticing the blush. 


2o6 


A CAAUJJXAL SI A' 


“ From something he once let drop, I fancied he must 
have met you.” 

Frances shook her head. 

“ Of course, I have met and spoken to more people 
than I can remember ; but his name is quite strange to 
me.” 

“He came from America,” continued Josephine. “I 
thought you might have known him there.” 

“Tell me what he is like. I don’t know him by name, 
at any rate.” 

Josephine described him, but the verbal portrait did not 
betray the original to her listener. 

“ He is good-looking, then ? ” observed Frances. 

“ I used to think so ; I don’t think so now.” 

Josephine smiled bitterly as she thought how her hus- 
band’s appearance had changed to her ; contrasting the 
real man as she now saw him with the noble young hero 
associated with her first dream of love. 

“Let me see a photograph of him,” said Frances; “I 
seldom forget a face.” 

“ I have none. Isn’t it strange, he never would have 
his likeness taken ? Although when we wer6 just married 
I used to beg of him to have it done, he never would.” 

“ I suppose I shall have him pointed out to me some 
day ; then, perhaps, I shall recognize him. But I am 
afraid from what you and Allan tell me, he is not an ac- 
quaintance to be proud of.” 

“ I should be very sorry to find you ever knew him,” 
said Josephine, sadly. 

Frances put her arm round her waist. 

“Are you very, very unhappy with him, my dear ? ” 
After I found him out I was unhappy for a time ; then 
my life, as far as he was concerned, was a blank. I ceased 
to care what he did or where he went. Latterly ” 

“Well, ‘latterly?’ ” echoed Frances, glad to encourage 
her confidence. 

“ Latterly — don’t think me wicked — I hate hirn — hate 
the sight of his wicked face and the sound of his sneering 
voice. Now that I hate him, I am, I think, beginning to 
be afraid of him.” 

“Why not leave him and come to us, or go to your 
father ? ” 

“ I shall soon — I am waiting for one thing.” 

“ And what is that ?” 

Josephine could not or would not tell her. She felt the 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


207 


confession must be degrading ; but after this conversa- 
tion the two girls seemed much more drawn to each other. 
Yet even then, after parting, with Frances, Josephine’s 
thoughts could not keep from dwelling on her husband’s 
words. She told herself that Frances was kind, true, pure 
and noble — that Digby, by leading her to believe he ever 
had any acquaintance with Allan’s wife, was acting, if not 
speaking, a lie. Yet she could not see his object. That 
he lied when it suited him she knew by experience, but 
there had always been some method in his untruths. Un- 
less it could be from a wish to annoy her by traducing her 
brother’s wife, she saw no call for falsehoods. The matter 
was vexing her very much, so she formed the resolution 
of undertaking the most distasteful task of telling her 
husband that Frances denied all knowledge of him, and 
insisting that he should explain his words, and say when 
and where he had met her. 

Some days went by before she found an opportunity of 
speaking to him on the subject. About this time he spent 
more days and nights away from home than he spent at 
home. She knew, moreover, that he was indulging in 
drink more freely than ever. When he slept at home she 
could hear his staggering steps on the stairs tong after she 
had gone to rest ; and as a natural consequence of the 
overnight debauch, the next morning he was scarcely in 
fitting trim to attack. But she was determined to put her 
questions whenever she saw a chance of his answering them. 

It was about midnight. Josephine was sitting alone, 
reading. Digby had informed her when he left home in 
the morning that he should not come back that night ; so 
she sat in fancied security. Her book being an interest- 
ing one, she was in no hurry to lay it down. Poor Jose- 
phine still clung to her novels, although she now read 
those of a more human and natural type. As she read she 
cut the pages with a small pointed dagger of foreign work- 
manship. She had bought it the day Digby went down to 
Redhills. She scarcely knew whj, but she felt much safer 
in that house when the little weapon was near at hand. 

As she read, the front door, which was always by Digby’s 
commands left on the latch, was opened, and she heard the 
sound of feet and of men’s laughter. There was no time 
to escape ; she closed her book and waited. 

The dining-room door was opened clumsily, as though 
the hand which turned the handle was inclined to wander 
about j then Digby, followed by another man, entered. 


2o8 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


They were both drunk, but in degrees — his friend posi- 
tive, Digby comparative, on the high road to superlative. 
Seeing the state her husbj^nd was in, Josephine was not 
altogether sorry to see another man. She was so com- 
pletely entrapped that it was better a third party should 
be present. Digby, on seeing her, gave a tipsy chuckle, 
and turning the key of the door, took it from the lock and 
placed it in his pocket. Josephine felt she was to have an 
unpleasant time of it, and blamed herself for not having 
gone to her own room long before. 

The master of the house threw himself into an arm- 
chair, and looked at his wife with eyes so full of malicious 
merriment that they might have been a monkey's. 

How do, my love ? ” he said, with that peculiar strained 
articulation always noticeable at a certain stage of intoxi- 
cation — that stage when the drinker is obliged to be careful 
lest he trip over syllables the most simple — “How do, my 
love — un’spected honor, I’m sure. So glad I came home 
early.” 

“Introduce me, Bourchier,”. said the other man, who 
had not seated himself. He was sober enough to see the 
impropriety of doing so w’hile the lady remained standing. 

“My wife — Bates,” murmured Digby. “Take a seat, 
Bates.” 

Mr. Bates sunk very willingly into the nearest chair. 

“Now we’ll all be happy,” said Digby. “Get the 
brandy,” he added, turning to Josephine. 

She continued to stand, and paid no attention to his 
words. He grew furious as he saw her calm and scornful. 

“ Get the brandy, I say,” he shouted, half rising from 

his chair. “ Get it at once, or ” She could not stoop 

to an altercation, so she quietly obeyed and took the spirit- 
case, glasses, and water- jug from the side-board, Mr, Bates, 
wdio w^as a gallant young man, endeavoring to assist her. 

“ Mix up,” said Digby. “ Bates, you sit down and enjoy 
yourself ; light a cigar.” 

“Perhaps Mrs. Bourchier objects to smoking,” said 
Bates, politely. 

“Nothing of the sort — she objects to nothing; do you, 
my dear? I’m mast’r of my own house — light up. Bates.” 

“ Do you object, Mrs. Bourchier ? ” asked Mr. Bates. 

^ “Not at all,” she answered, coldly — so Bates did as de- 
sired. 

“ Now mix the grog, and don’t let’s have more nonsense,” 
said Digby, scowling at his wife. 


A CARDIJVAL SIJV. 


209 


She did even this. Her husband drained his glass to the 
bottom, and made her mix another. 

“ Will you give me the key, if you please ? ” she said. 

No, my darling, I won’t give you the key. We’ll have 
a jolly night of it, and you shall keep us company — eh. 
Bates ? ” 

“ Perhaps Mrs. Bourchier is tired — it is getting late,’* 
simpered Mr. Bates. 

“ Tired ! she’s never tired with me — are you, my darling?’* 

This was getting intolerable. 

‘‘ Give me the key,” she said, peremptorily. 

Digby laughed, and drank some more brandy. Mr. 
Bates saw he had not strayed into a happy household. 

“It’s rather too bad,” he said, “ to keep Mrs. Bourchier 
against her will. Give up the key, old fellow.” He spoke 
the last sentence in that soothing, patronizing kind of way 
which is supposed to be highly efficacious under circum- 
stances like these. 

“ I’ll see her first. Give her the key — not I. Yes, I 

will, though. Josephine, my dear, you shall have the key 
in ’schange for a kiss.” 

She looked at him with cutting scorn. He laughed 
wickedly. 

“ Isn’t that fair. Bates ? The key for a kiss. She can 
kiss very nicely. Bates. That’s a fair exchange, isn’t it ?” 

“ Seems so,” said Bates, doubtfully ; for he fancied there 
was something between husband and wife of which he was 
ignorant. 

“Come, Jos’phine, put your arms round my neck — or 
shall I come to you ? ” Her face grew very pale ; but she 
neither moved nor spoke. 

“ There’s a ’fectionate wife. Bates,” said Digby, in a 
half-maudlin, half-jeering voice. “Yet you’d never b’lieve 
that once that girl used to hang round my neck and kiss 
me like anything. It was dear Digby — Digby, my own. 
See her now — with never a word for me. Don’t you get 
married, Bates— they’re all alike. Why, there’s a little girl 
I know •” 

“ Hush ! ” said Bates. 

Josephine drew herself up. Her eyes flashed. 

“ Don’t trouble about me, Mr. Bates,” she said. “ I have 
long known that this man is one of the most cowardly, 
unprincipled villains on the earth. No insult he can heap 
on me can be a greater one than forcing me to stay in his 
society for a moment longer than I choose.” 

14 


210 


A CARDIJVAL S/JV. 


Oh, hush ! hush ! please hush ! ” said Bates, who saw 
he was getting into a difficult position. 

Digby swore a vicious oath, and, draining off the re- 
mainder of his liquor, rose from his seat, and staggered 
across to her. Her words had raised all the devil within 
him, and his rage increased when he saw her standing 
pale but resolute before him. For a moment he was mad. 

“ You ! ” he hissed, and raised his hand. 

Bates, who was, from the stress of the situation, grow- 
ing sober, sprung forward. He was a second too late. 
The coward’s hand fell on the girl — fell on the upper part 
of her arm close to the shoulder with a sounding slap. So 
violent was the craven blow that it hurled her with force 
against the wall ; indeed, it was with difficulty she kept 
her feet. 

Bates, who, although a friend of Digby’s, was not a very 
bad young man, was much horrified and excited. 

“You awful cad ! ” he cried, as he threw his arms round 
the ruffian. He was much lighter and weaker than Digby, 
but, as the latter was now in a high state of intoxication, 
he managed to restrain him, and even pull him back to 
his seat, into which he pushed him, and then stood on 
guard over him. 

He seemed inclined to renew the attack, and sat glower- 
ing at Josephine and cursing both her and her protector. 
Bates kept both eye and hand upon him, ejaculating at in- 
tervals, “ You awful cad !” 

“Would you — you jade!” cried Digby, in a manner 
which made his guardian turn his head and look at the 
lady, and for a moment feel much frightened. 

Josephine had recovered ; she was standing at the table 
with the small glittering dagger in her hand. This, after 
what had happened, was a startling sight. The ill-used 
Bates began to tremble lest a tragedy were afoot. 

But no — she had no intention of using the weapon as 
he feared. The sharp point and edge were turned only 
against herself, and even then not with suicidal intentions. 

In a moment she had ripped the tight-fitting sleeve of 
her dress from elbow to shoulder, and the white round 
arm gleamed out from the dark material. There is no 
more beautiful sight in the world than the upper part of a 
fair woman’s arm — so what cruder or more moving sight 
could there be than to see that soft round white surface 
marred by four red bands left there as mementoes of the 
fingers which had fallen with merciless intent upon it 


A CARDIJ^AL SIM 


2II 


Now Josephine had a beautiful arm, so it is no wonder 
that Mr. Bates was moved at the pitiful sight. 

“Give her the key and let her go !” he cried. “Let me 
go too ! “ 

“Let’s kish and forgive, then,” said Digby, who was 
growing more than maudlin. 

“ Leave him alone, if you please,” said Josephine. Bates 
fancied her voice was curiously changed, but she was a 
plucky little woman ! 

Seeing that Digby was succumbing to the effects of the 
brandy, he left him. The wretch had enough strength 
left to pour himself out more spirit. He looked round 
hazily for the water, and realized that the jug was empty, 
so he put more brandy in his glass. 

“ Ne’r min’,” he said, with an attempt at jocosity. 
“Warrer’s a mishtake.” So he drank away at the neat 
spirit. 

And Josephine sat there with white face and lips, with 
her wounded arm, with the fiery red bars across it, still bare ; 
and Mr. Bates, although from time to time he ventured to 
glance at her, could not muster courage enough to attempt 
any clumsy consolation. He could only long for the mo- 
ment to come when his host should fall out of his chair, 
senseless. 

The moment came at last. If Digby did not exactly fall 
under the table, his head went on one side, his senses left 
him, and he lay like a log. Mr. Bates, and perhaps Jo- 
sephine, watched him attentively — the former satisfying 
himself as to his harmless state and relieving his own feel- 
ings by bestowing one or two kicks upon his insensible 
form. The end, as far as Josephine and Digby were con- 
cerned, had come. 

Mr. Bates never understood the half-pleased sigh Avhich 
escaped his fair companion as she rose and looked down 
in utter contempt on her drunken lord. 

“ Please take the key from his pocket,” she said. 

He did so, and opened the door. 

With one accord they passed out and stood in the hall. 
Mr. Bates began to apologize. 

“ I am awfully sorry, Mrs. Bourchier — it seems a funny 
thing to say — but please don’t judge me by your husband. 
I had no idea he was that kind of man. I shall never 
speak to such a cad again.” 

“ Yes,” said Josephine, “he is a cad.” 

“ You will forgive any share I may have had in this ? ” 


212 


A CARDINAL SIN 


Freely. I am glad you were there ; or I don’t know 
what might have happened.” 

Josephine shuddered. How could she ever have run the 
risk she had been running for so long ? 

“ Can I do any more for you ? I will stay to any time 
if I can be of service.” 

“ Nothing more, thank you. Good-night.” 

“ You are sure you are not afraid to remain in the 
house ? ” 

Not at all. But you won’t forget what you have seen, 
Mr. Bates ? ” 

“ Never — the cad ! ” 

“ Will you give me your address ? ” 

Mr. Bates wrote it down. 

I may call and inquire for you, I hope,” he said. 

“No, please not. I can only hope that we may never 
meet again. A woman cannot feel glad to meet a man 
who has witnessed her degradation.” 

“Good-night, then,” he said. “You are sure that I can 
do nothing ? ” 

“Nothing. But how long will that sleep last ? ” 

“ For hours, 1 should say. How ashamed he will feel 
in the morning.” 

Josephine doubted this, so said nothing. Then Mr. 
Bates left the house, feeling very much ashamed of him- 
self, and resolving to turn over a new leaf, and cut all loose 
companions. Let us hope that he did so. 

Josephine went back to the dining-room. She had now 
no fear, nor much grief. Her deliverance was at hand. 
She gazed for a minute at the prostrate form. Oh ! such 
a pitiful state for her whilom hero to be in ! She turned 
down the gas, and going to the top of the house, knocked 
at the servants’ door. The domestics appeared in great 
trepidation. 

“I am sorry to disturb you,” said Josephine. “I will 
not keep you a minute. If you are quite awake look at 
my arm.” 

They looked in open-mouthed astonishment. 

“ La, mum ! ” said the cook, “ it’s finger-marks. Has 
master ” 

“Yes,” answered Josephine, quietly, “ he struck me just 
now. Please don’t forget the day and the hour I show it 
to you. Now go to bed again. I want nothing more.” 

She went back to her own room, took all her jewelry 
and trinkets, and placed them, with any papers or letters 


A CARDINAL SDV. 


213 


she wished to keep, in a little bag. She did not change 
her mutilated dress, but wrapped a thick cloak around 
her, put on a hat, and walked down-stairs. When she 
reached the hall a fancy seized her. She thought she 
would like to take her little dagger with her. It was but 
a fancy, at first, but she soon saw it would be well to have 
it. In any subsequent legal proceedings Digby would be 
villain enough to produce it, and perhaps swear she had 
threatened him with it. Yes, she would have the dagger. 

She opened the door cautiously and stepped once more 
into the room. At one glance she saw that she need not 
be afraid of awaking the sleeper. He lay void of sense or 
motion — a log, a breathing log — that was all. She took 
the little weapon in her hand, and, gentle as her nature 
had once been, felt that, if freedom depended upon it she 
could drive the steel then and there to his heart. She 
stood looking at him for a while, finding a sort of fascina- 
tion in his utter helplessness. In this short time she re- 
viewed the part he had played in her life since that ill- 
omened day when, by her father’s invitation, he first came 
to Redhills. Then she thought of her father, and the 
mysterious hold this man he detested had over him — a 
power strong enough to wring large sums of money at 
will from him. What could it be ? If only she knew — if 
only she could rescue her father from his clutches. Her 
face flamed as a sudden impulse urged her to do some- 
thing she saw dimly might be of service. This man had 
wronged her, deceived her, ruined her life — if she could 
not only revenge herself but aid those she loved, why 
should she shrink from the means which were at hand ? 

She went near to him, leaned over him, and shuddering 
as she touched 'even his clothes, ascertained that his keys 
were in the pocket of his loose coat. She had no difficulty 
in gaining possession of them. Then she went up-stairs 
once more — went to a room she had not entered for years 
— his room, and hastily unlocked a small iron chest he 
kept there. There were papers in it, and a roll of bank- 
notes, and many letters in women’s handwriting ; and, 
moreover, there was a pocket-book or letter-case full of 
papers. She opened this, and saw that every paper had 
on some part or other the name of Bourchier. It struck 
her directly that these papers must in some way be con- 
nected with the sway he exercised over her father. She 
thrust the pocket-book into the bosom of her dress, and 
was about to close and relock the safe when another idea 


214 


A CAJW7.VAL S/M 


came to her, so before she closed it she selected two or 
three of the topmost, and, tlierefore, probably the most 
recent of the letters — they might be useful. Then she 
locked the safe, and having replaced the keys in the sleep- 
er’s pocket, went from his hated presence without giving 
a backward glance ; went out of the front door into the 
dim-lit street — left her husband forever. 

It was now past three o’clock. Where was she to go ? 
Her first idea was to walk about the streets all night and 
take the early morning train to the west. Then a man 
passing her and making a remark which set her cheeks 
flushing showed her the impossibility of this plan. She 
must go somewhere. Allan was her natural guardian in 
London, so an empty hansom fortunately passing she hailed 
it, and directed the man to drive to Caversham Place, where 
Allan now lived, and in a short time was weeping in her 
brother’s arms, wildly crying 'for his protection, while 
Frances was petting, soothing, and comforting her. 

And Allan, when he saw those red bars on his sister’s 
arm, ground his teeth and swore that some day he would 
pay them back with interest to the ruffian wh<->sc cowardly 
fingers had placed them there. 


CHAPTER XVHI. 

FACE TO FACE. 

Although he did not at once realize the fact, it was 
broad daylight when Digby Bourchier’s senses began to 
return to him. When he dimly comprehended the posi- 
tion in which he was lying— his head resting against the 
leg of an arm-chair, and his feet somewhere in the region 
of the fender — and found that it behooved him to get out 
of it as soon as possible, his idea was that it was still night. 
The shutters and the door were closed ; the gas alight. 
The servants had looked into the room, and seeing the 
state of affairs had left their master to make the best of 
them. It was about ten in the morning when he rose from 
the hearth-rug, and with some difficulty, and wondering the 
while if that splitting ball surmounting his shoulders could 
be his head, transferred himself to the couch and slept 
again. At present he was not equal to the exertion of re- 
calling the events which had placed him in so uncomfort- 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


215 


able a state. He bad been drunk — very drunk ; no effort 
of mind was needed to arrive at that conclusion ; so he 
troubled no more about the matter, but slept on for two or 
three hours longer. Then he awoke, sober, but very ill. 

He lay blinking and thinking ; by and by matters began 
to arrange themselves in his racking brain. He remem- 
bered coming home with Bates — remembered that Jo- 
sephine was in the room when they entered it. Then he 
remembered Josephine with a dagger in her hand, and 
sitting opposite to him with one arm bare ; then he re- 
membered he had been angry ; that he had struck her in 
his anger. 

“ I must have been awfully gone,” he said, “or she must 
have been uncommonly provoking. It doesn’t matter 
which.” 

His watch had run down, but the clock on the mantel- 
piece told him the time. He was surprised to find it so 
late, and being troubled by no sense of shame, rang the 
bell for the servant. 

“ Open the shutters,” he said ; “ clear the place up and 
get me some tea.” 

He went to his room, plunged his head in cold water, 
and presently came down to his tea feeling a trifle better. 

“ Where’s your mistress ? ” he asked the servant maid. 

“ I don’t know, please, sir.” 

“ Don’t know ! Has she gone out ?” 

“If you please, sir,” said the servant mysteriously, “I 
think missus has gone away, sir.” 

“ What do you mean ? Where has she gone to ? ” 

“ She came to our room last night, sir, and showed me 
and cook her poor arm. We haven’t seen her since.” 

“ Isn’t she in her bedroom — go and see.” 

“ No, sir ; the door was open this morning, and the bed 
hasn’t been lain upon. She’s gone away, and I don’t 
wonder at it. And, if you please, me and cook would like 
to go as soon as convenient.” 

“ Go and be d — ” said Digby, politely. 

He was not much surprised to find that his wife had left 
him. He assured himself of the fact by a visit to her 
room. Site had simply gone, leaving no letter or trace 
behind her. He cared little for her flight, thinking that 
the time had come when he could do'without her. As for 
the safety of the woman who had left his roof at three 
o’clock in the morning, there was, he felt, no need to 
trouble. As a natural course she would go straight to 


2i6 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


Redhills, where she was welcome to stay until he wanted 
her. He could claim her when he chose, and this would 
give him another hold on her father. 

Several days elapsed before he discovered that Joseph- 
ine had not gone empty-handed. Having had no occa- 
sion to go to his safe for money, the absence of an impor- 
tant item of its contents was not revealed. He had slept at 
home each night, and had paid no visits to that cottage a 
few miles out of town. The reason of this omission was 
that the fair occupant whose mode of life was such a sub- 
ject of interest to the quiet village had suddenly quitted it. 
No doubt she had found the Arcadian life dull, and at the 
instance of another admirer had left to better her condition. 
Her successor not yet being installed, the cottage was 
empty for a time. 

About a week after Josephine’s flight Digby was waited 
upon by his servants. They asked him if he expected 
Mrs. Bourchier would return, and upon hearing his surly 
negative informed him that, having as good as taken other 
places, they intended leaving his seirvice that day. Their 
going or staying being a matter of perfect indifference to 
him, he contented himself with his former polite remark ; 
and in reply to their request for wages due, told them to 
get them where they could.. The domestics left in a tan- 
trum, threatening to sue him for the amount ; and he was 
quite alone in his house. 

This being such an uncomfortable state of things, he 
soon followed his servants’ example, and, packing up what 
he wanted, purposed to take up his abode fora while at an 
hotel. The last thing he did before he quitted the house 
was to take his money from the safe. He counted it and 
found it right ;then he looked for the pocket-book full of 
papers which were too valuable and important to leave be- 
hind him. The pocket-book was gone. He turned all the 
papers in the chest out upon the floor, and found it was 
undoubtedly missing. It was a longtime before he could 
believe it ; nor did he quite give up hope until he had 
searched every pocket of every article of clothing he own- 
ed, wondering if he could have left it^in either. No ; he 
could distinctly remember that the last time he went to the 
safe the book was there. He remembered seeing and 
handling it. It was* gone — stolen, and stolen for a pur- 
pose. 

He sat down and used a great deal of vigorous language. 
There was no one to hear him, so he could indulge with- 


A CARDhYAL S/A^. 


217 


out the slightest restraint. He directed many of his re- 
marks to himself, but many more to his absent wife ; but 
not for a moment did he doubt who had robbed him. So far 
as he knew the key had never been out of his possession — 
so far as he knew, for he thought of those hours when he 
lay insensible to touch and deaf to all sounds — dead drunk. 
That night Josephine had left him, but before leaving had 
taken the key and had ransacked his private safe. It 
could be no one else. Another would have taken the 
money, and left the document. The act was Josephine’s 
but the instigation Mr. Bourchier’s. That was why she 
had lived so long with him after domestic comfort became 
a mockery — it was simply to wait for this opportunity, 
which at last his own folly had made for her. The thing 
was clear as daylight. He threw the worthless papers 
back into the box, locked it, and went down-stairs to 
think — with the assistance of brandy and water — to what 
extent this unexpected loss jeoparded Ins interest. 

He took it for granted that the papers had been straight- 
way taken to Mr. Bourchier ; that they were, unless de- 
stroyed, at this moment in his hands. To make the case 
worse, every paper was there — even the ones which certi- 
fied his own death and his pretended sister’s birth. This, 
so far as Mr. Bourchier was concerned, would affect him 
but little ; there was nothing more for that gentleman to 
learn. He was thinking of the time when he might be 
compelled by circumstances to tell the tale to Allan or 
Frances, as it best suited his purpose. He argued that 
the possession and production of these documents would 
stamp his assertions with truth ; in their absence his tale 
would be disregarded and laughed at. Even Frances, 
eager as he guessed her to be to hear what he knew about 
her father’s death, would perhaps disbelieve the statement 
of a self-convicted impostor. If she loved her husband she 
would be all the more ready to think his accusation a false 
one. After all, he had nothing to prove his words, except 
the personal matters which had belonged to John Boucher, 
and which he had extorted from Mr. Stokes. That gen- 
tleman had also vanished from sight for a long time. 

He might obtain copies of the stolen certificates, but 
doing so would take some time ; and as to places, names, 
and dates, of one or two he was uncertain. , No ; he 
could not afford the delay. He must find Josephine at 
once ; and if by any happy chance she still kept possession 
of the documents, must, by threats, cajoleries, or force, get 


21*3 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


them from her, or, at least, learn why she took them, and 
to whom she had given them. 

He went straightway to Redhills, and, forcing his way 
into Mr. Bourchier’s presence, demanded that his wife 
should be restored to him. He was incredulous when over 
and over again he was assured she had not sought asylum 
beneath her father’s roof. He talked loudly about prop- 
erty having been taken, and threatened some nonsense 
about search warrants. 

“Search and welcome,” said Mr. Bourchier ; “ she is not 
here — she has not been here. If she had been in the house 
you may be sure you would not have been allowed to en- 
ter. Your presence here should convince you, even if you 
doubt my word.” 

“You have heard from her.” 

“ I received a letter from the lady in whose care she 
now is, saying Josephine had left you never to return. I 
know no more.” 

“You know where she is ; is she at Shortlands?” 

“ I must decline to answer you,” said Mr. Bourchier, 
firmly. 

“ I shall go and see for myself.” 

The speaker was uncertain whether the papers had 
reached Redhills after all. In that case he fancied Mr. 
Bourchier would have taken a higher hand than he had 
done during the interview. 

“Go — anyway, Josephine shall never return to you.” 

“ I’ll see about that too.” 

Mr. Bourchier gave a kind of weary sigh. He was look- 
ing very ill. 

“Look here,” he said, “before you go tell me if there is 
anything you hold sacred — any way of pledging yourself 
and keeping your word.” 

“ I always keep my word — you ought to know that.’* 

“ Is there any way I can bind you — any way I can make 
you harmless ? Tell me for what sum you will leave Eng- 
land, and before going will give me all those papers you 
showed me, and everything else you hold.” 

“You’re beginning to get reasonable,” said Digby, de- 
lighted to find that the papers had not yet reached Mr. 
Bourchier. 

“I am beginning to die,” said he, with an emphasis 
which made the villain start. “ You will die some day and 
learn what it means. Look in my face and read your 
work there.” 


A CARDIATAL SIN', 


219 

Well, part of it was your own act,” said Digby, with an 
uneasy laugh. 

“You fool !” said Mr. Bourchier. “If I regret my act,, 
as you call it, a man of your type should know it is not 
that which is killing me. Rogue, villain, blood-sucker as 
you are, you must have some feelings of compassion. 
Hand me over those papers, leave England, and show me 
some way which will insure your silence, and I will pay a 
handsome price.” 

Mr. Bourchier had never spoken before in this strain. 
Digby was mentally calculating how to act best for his 
own interests. He quite believed his companion had not 
long to live ; still, the decision was too weighty a one to be 
given off-hand. 

“I told you once,” said Mr. Bourchier, “you had been 
too clever. Take my advice and don’t make that mistake 
again. I may repent ; send for Allan, his wife, and a 
clergyman — people often feel like that before they die.” 

He spoke in a satirical, half-mocking way. The threat 
was a strange, a horrible one, but Digby knew it was 
meant in grim earnest, and hearing it, realized that after 
all Philip Bourchier was a man of stronger will than him- 
self. He knew with death drawing near him he could not 
have talked in that way. 

So much impressed was he, that he nearly named the 
large sum he considered he was entitled to ; then remem- 
bering that any negotiation while the papers were out of 
his hands must fall through, checked himself. 

“ ril let you know,” he said. “I don’t want to be .too 
hard ; but you must come down handsomely. I must see 
Josephine first — where is she ?” 

“That you must find out.” 

On this point Mr. Bourchier was inflexible, but as he did 
not deny that she was at Shortlands, Digby proceeded to 
that place as quickly as he could. That the certificates 
were not in Mr. Bourchier’s hands was clear proof that 
Josephine \vas not at Redhills. 

He went boldly np to Shortlands House and asked for 
Mrs. Messiter. In a few moments Mabel came to him. 
She had been fully informed as to Josephine’s flight ; had, 
indeed, been up to town to see and advise her. The fugi- 
tive felt certain that when her husband discovered his loss 
he would endeavor to find her. She was now in cold 
blood rather ashamed of the righteous theft, wishing she 
had not acted in a way which had something underhand 


220 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


about it. So she resolved to mention the matter to no one 
until she had seen her father, and asked his opinion on the 
worth of the papers. She had just glanced at them, but 
was ignorant as to their value. As soon as she saw her 
father she would tell him all about the theft. Her great 
desire was to keep for the present out of Digby’s way. 

“ Will you come down to Shortlands, dear ? ” asked 
Mabel. 

“ No,” said Josephine, who had fully considered the 
matter. “ He will look for me at Redhills first ; then he 
will try Shortlands.” 

And then Allan’s, of course.” 

Yes. But if he comes down to you, couldn’t you make 
him think I was with you but you would not give me up 
to him ? ” 

“ I dare say we could do so,” said Mabel, wondering at 
the astuteness circumstances had brought out in Josephine’s 
character. 

“It won’t bother you, Mabel ? ” 

“ Not a bit. Dick will take care of that.” 

“Then, please, let it be so.” 

So it was that when Digby demanded his wife, and as- 
serted his belief that she was in her house, Mrs. Messiter, 
although firmly refusing to grant his request, scarcely con- 
tradicted his assertion. She was polite in her words, but 
this politeness was full of veiled scorn. After a while her 
visitor grew very angry, and, as a natural sequence, showed 
his ill-breeding. He plumped himself down on a chair, 
for as yet Mrs. Messiter had not asked him to be seated. 

“ I shall stay here until I see her. She’s here, I know — 
you can’t deny it. Every man has a right to his wife. I’ll 
stay here forever, but see her I will.” 

Mabel bent her head about an inch, and left the room. 

“ Go and find your master,” she said to the first servant 
she met. Mr. Messiter, who was somewhere about the 
grounds, soon obeyed her summons. 

“ That man — Josephine’s husband, is here,” she said. 
“He declares he won’t go until he has seen her. Will you 
tell the men to turn him out ; but let him still think she is 
here ? ” 

“ 111 turn him out myself,” said Mr. Messiter. 

Mabel begged him not to risk his precious limbs or life , 
but he insisted on having his own way, and walked care- 
lessly into the drawing-room, with his hands in the pockets 
of his shooting-coat. He had never met Josephine’s hus- 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


221 


band, and the scowl with which Digby greeted him did not 
make iiis first impressions of the man favorable ones. Mr. 
Messiter did not mince matters; he went straight to the 
point. 

“ Now,” he said, “you be off out of this.” 

“ I’ll go when I’ve seen my wife, not before.” 

“You won’t see her ; she doesn’t want to see you. So 
go at once.” 

“ Let me see her alone for ten minutes, then I’ll go.” 

“ Not for half a second. The only place where you’ll 
see her again will be in the divorce court — if you mean to 
put in an appearance there.” 

“Then I don’t go,” said Digby, doggedly. 

“ Well, I’ll give you five minutes to go quietly ; after 
that. I’ll send some one to turn you out.” 

“ Let any of your infernal flunkies touch me if they 
dare.” 

Messiter laughed. 

“ Flunkies aren’t much use in such cases. You’ve got 
five minutes, so take my advice and go.” 

Then Messiter left the room, giving a quick glance at 
one of the windows as he went. FI is visitor reseated him- 
self resolutely, but he was not without a feeling that an 
uncomfortable kind of ejection was in preparation for 
him. He began to think he was acting like a fool, but 
meant to see the matter out to the end. He kept his eyes 
fixed on the door, from which direction he knew the attack 
would come ; so he did not see Mr. Messiter walk quietly 
across the lawn toward the stables ; nor could he hear him 
whistle and call for “Jack ; ” nor was he aware that when 
the five minutes were nearly over, Mr. Messiter was saun- 
tering back with the said Jack at his heels. 

Jack was one of tlie finest bulldogs in the county. His 
front legs bowed out like those of an old-fashioned chair, 
and his hind legs were so close together that the impres- 
sion he gave was that of a dog two feet broad in front and 
six inches broad behind. His skin was as fine as a lady’s, 
and his tail tapered to the size of a pipe-stem. Flis under 
jaw projected in a most delightful manner some three- 
quarters of an inch beyond the upper one, and his beauty 
and value were enhanced by his nostrils running back at 
an angle of forty-five degrees. In short. Jack was a dog 
of that kind which to all who know not the good qualities 
it owns, is an object of terror. You might have hung Jack 
for six weeks by a nail through his ear or his tail without 


222 


J CARDINAL SIN 


getting a moan from him. Just as the five minutes’ grace 
expired, Mr. Messiter opened the little window behind tlie 
intruder and chucked Jack into the room. A word from 
his master made him stand where he fell, and Digby turn- 
ing round saw this disturbing element in the proceedings. 

“ Sorry you’re not gone,” said Mr. Messiter, cheerfully. 
*‘Jack sticks when he bites, so you’ll go out in his com- 
pany.” 

Digby’s calves were trembling in anticipation of what 
they might feel. 

“ Take the brute away ! ” he cried. 

‘‘ Not a bit of it ; he’ll keep quiet till I tell him to act. 
Then it’s your look-out, not mine.” 

Digby looked round for the poker. The room w^as large, 
and before he could get it he knew the dog would be on 
him. 

“ Are you going? ” said Messiter, dryly, keeping a close 
watch on his man. Discretion was the better part of valor. 
He had a pistol in his pocket, but he knew that one move- 
ment in that direction would insure the word of attack 
being given. What could he do against such a devil of a 
dog as this? Deep potations, moreover, had greatly in- 
terfered with the nerve he once possessed. This dog, with 
his projecting jaw, slanting nostrils, and general capability 
for hanging on, was irresistible. 

Yes, I am going,” he said, “ keep him quiet — I’ll go.” 

“ ril meet you at the door,” said Messiter. “ I don’t 
think Jack will touch you if you go at once.” Hereupon 
he withdrew from the window. 

Digby lost all sense of dignity — he absolutely bolted, 
Jack following him at a proper interval. His host 
walked down the drive with him. Jack at his heels. 

“ Mind you,” he said, as his visitor passed through the 
gate, “Jack’s always about. He never forgets a face. 
Now be off, and never show yours here again.” 

Digby did not attempt to invade the house any more, 
but for a couple of days he hung about the neighborhood, 
hoping to see Josephine by some chance* or other. He 
wrote to her begging for an interview. That she was at 
Shortlands was certain. He would have stayed there until 
he did encounter her had it not been absolutely necessary 
for the sake of some of his ventures that he should return 
to town. The fortnightly settlement w^as at hand ; he 
must go back and arrange the account — the more need- 
ful to do so as the account was a very bad one for him. 


A CARDhVAL SIN. 223 

His second streak of luck had quickly come to an end. 
He was striving at present to regain, not gain money. 
Then that forged bill! By the time he had settled his 
broker’s demands he would not have nearly enough money 
left to meet it. The sooner he came to final terms with 
Mr. Bourchier the better. So it was imperative that lie 
should find Josephine, and, somehow, get back the papers 
slie had appropriated. 

He went back to London fully intending to return to 
S^Mirtlands and wait until he met his wife. She must 
icave the house sometimes, so if he watched continually 
lie must at last see her. 

Messiter’s hint about the divorce court did not trouble 
him much. He was tired of his wife, and would be glad 
to be a free man again. He might pick up a 'woman with 
some money. But if it suited him to keep Josephine 
bound to him, he thought he might force Mr. Bourchier to 
stay her in any proceedings she might be contemplating. 

He was thinking about all these things, when one day, 
while in a hansom, he passed Josephine — passed her so 
close that he could have been deceived by no chance re- 
semblance. She was dressed in different garments from 
any he could recall in connection with her ; but as she left 
the house with nothing but the clothes on her back, this 
was not to be wondered at. Had she been alone he would 
have accosted her, but she had a companion, a middle- 
aged lady. He had no idea who she was, but then he 
knew few of his wife’s friends, even by sight. Undoubt- 
edly it was Josephine, and in London. He stopped the 
hansom at once, and looking out cautiously from the side 
window, saw the ladies pass. Then he told the cab-driver 
to follow them at a convenient distance. They turned off 
from Piccadilly — turned again and again until they reached 
Caversham Place, where he saw them enter a house. He 
noted which house it was, paid and dismissed his cab, and 
stood on the pavement considering what course to adopt. 
Most likely the people who lived in that house were friends 
of his wife’s, with whom she had taken refuge. See her 
he must, and would. He had a perfect right to knock at 
the door, and insist upon seeing Mrs. Bourchier. He had 
no fear of meeting another “Jack” in a London house. 
Yes, he would call boldly and ask for Mrs. Bourchier. 

He knocked and rang ; the door opened. 

“ Is Mrs. Bourchier in ?” he asked 

“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “ Please to walk in.” 


224 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


It was not an unusual hour for calling, so she conducted 
him straight to the drawing-room. He chuckled as he 
thought what a sensation his appearance would make. 

“ What name, sir ? ” asked the servant. 

“ Say Mr. Smith.” 

The door was opened and in he walked. The room he 
entered was large and luxuriously furnished. With one 
hasty glance he saw all this, and saw at the further end of 
the room his wife, in her walking dress and bonnet, talking 
to another lady. As the servant announced the name 
this lady turned with a look of surprise on her face, and 
for the time Digby quite forgot that he had come in search 
of his wife. The only thing that he could realize was 
that Frances Bourchier and himself were at last face to 
face. 

She knew him in an instant. Her astonishment was so 
great that she did not notice the look of fear on Joseph- 
ine’s face, did not hear her little cry of horror. George 
Manders, the man she had sought for and longed for years 
to see, was before her — had come of his own accord. 
Thought is quicker than words or motion ; it comes not 
piece-meal, but in a lump. He had come without being 
asked — come willingly. She had wronged the man. His 
reasons for keeping out of her way were no doubt good 
ones from his point of view. Now she should know all — 
everything he knew as to her father’s fate. 

All this flashed across her at once. She ran toward him 
eagerly, her hands stretched out. 

“You! ’’she cried; “you! At last, after these years! 
Oh, I am glad to see you ! ” 

Of course he could not refuse to take her hand. Al- 
though surprise for a moment took speech from him, he 
could perform the mechanical action. Josephine, who saw 
the mutual recognition, gathered her skirts together, and, 
drawing herself up, left the room. Neither her husband 
nor Frances seemed to notice her departure. She went to 
her room and locked the door. 

“ She told me she had never even seen him,” she said. 
“ Poor Allan— poor Allan ! ” 


A CARDHSTAL SIN. 


225 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ALL HE KNEW ABOUT IT. 

The greeting which Frances gave the man she only knew 
by his true name, George Manders, was a purely sellisli 
one. The fact of seeing him once more gave her in itself 
no satisfaction ; but she was delighted to think tliat tiie 
time had come when all the uncertainty and mystery 
would be cleared up. However dreadful the circum- 
stances which had caused her father’s death, she was eager 
to hear the full account, and never for a nujment doubted 
but Manders had called to-day to enlighten her. It never 
entered her head that the Mrs. Bourchier he wanted to see 
was the unfortunate Josephine. After her first impulsive 
welcome, her manner changed. Tlie remembrance of the 
trouble and anxiety he had caused by his wilful refusal to 
tell her what she had a right to know came back to her, 
and her first feeling of gladness began to merge into some- 
thing very much like anger. 

“Now you are come,’’ she said, “sit down and tell me 
all.” 

He obeyed her command to sit down, but said nc 
word. He was in a situation for which he was utterly un- 
prepared. The very last thing he wanted to do, as mat- 
ters now stood, was to tell Frances the whole truth. There 
was no money to be made out of her ; it would, of course, 
make things very uncomfortable for Allan and Mr. Bour- 
cliier, and as an act of revenge would be highly success- 
ful ; but what good would it do him ? Revenge without 
money was not worth having. 

And even this was dependent upon his being able to 
convince his hearer of the truth of his tale. To make 
matters and motives clear to her he must enter upon her 
own family history, the ins and outs of which he knewslie 
was in total ignorance of. He must make her understand 
that Redhiils, the reputed property of Mr. Bourchier, was 
legally her own — that she and her husband were first- 
cousiiLs. The tale, if only supported by his bare word, 
would seem to a clear-headed woman like Frances too ab- 
surd to be listened to. With the papers lie could have 
convinced her — but that little vixen Josephine had these. 
He began to wish he had not struck Josephine on that 
night — or had struck her much harder. 

^5 


226 A CARDINAL SIN. 

All these difficulties presented themselves as he sat silent, 
while Frances waited impatiently to hear his explanation. 

“Tell me,” she exclaimed, speaking as a queen might 
speak to a subject — “ tell me at once. You have hidden 
the truth long enough.” 

But he wanted to hide it even longer. His own idea 
was to gain a little time — at any cost to keep Frances from 
disclosing all she knew about his antecedents to Allan or 
Josephine. 

“ I must think,” he said ; “ let me think for a few min- 
utes.” 

He employed the few minutes he craved in weaving plot 
after plot — sclieme after scheme to insure Frances’s silence. 
He knew that the moment she informed her husband who 
he was his house of cards must fall to the ground. Fran- 
ces must be cheated or frightened into holding her tongue 
— at least for a while. To assure this he felt he would 
stop at no crime — no baseness. So he planned and 
schemed to this end. 

She employed the time in looking at him — in marvelling 
at the change a few years had wrought in him ; for he 
was beginning to show the visible marks of hard life. The 
last few months had told greatly upon him. Nothing af- 
fects a man’s appearance like unsuccessfid gambling for 
high stakes. The excitement and suspense sqon tell their 
tale. She saw he was well — very well-dressed, and had a 
general air of well-to-do-ness about him ; but his face 
seemed to have now contracted, as if habitual, an expres- 
sion which in old times she had only detected there on rare 
occasions, when he was off his guard. She found herself 
wondering how she could ever have thought kindly of the 
man — how he made his living now ; well knowing that his 
possessions when they parted had been but small. He 
could not have followed the profession he once intended 
to follow’, orshe felt sure she must have heard of himsome- 
W’here. 

“ Now, you have had plenty of time, speak,” slie said. 

“ There is so much to consider and w’eigh,” he said, apol- 
ogetically. 

“ What can there be to consider ? What right had you 
to keep silence for a day, when you had learned all I was 
longing to learn ? ” 

“ 1 thought it best. I think it best now% Frances.” 

“ I forgot to tell you my name is Mrs. Bourchier,” she 
said, coldly. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


227 


I am quite aware of it. Mrs. Allan Bourchier in pri- 
vate ; Mdlle. Francesca in public. Let me at least con- 
gratulate you on your triumphs.” 

‘'Thank you. Now tell me everything.” 

“What is it you want to know?” He spoke sharply 
and as if his mind were at length made up. 

“ I want to know how, when, and where my poor father 
died.” 

“ He was killed — murdered.” 

“ By whom ? ” 

“ That I cannot tell you.” 

“ You shall tell me !” She rose and stamped her foot. 
She towered over him like a queen. 

“ I cannot tell you, because at present I do not know ; 
but I can find out.” 

“You can find out, and have not yet done so!” She 
spoke in a way which showed her astonishment. 

“ I have not done so. I thought it best not to do so.” 

“And who, sir, gave you the right to judge? Who au- 
thorized you to let a murderer go scot free ? I would 
have dragged him to the gallows with my own hands ! ” 

Her form dilated, her eyes flashed. Never on the stage 
had she looked grander or shown more passion. Manders 
felt he was quite right in his supposition that it would be 
a bad time for Mr. Bourchier, and even for Allan, when 
she learned and believed the truth. 

“Where did he meet*his death ?” she cried. “Was it 
in London ? ” 

“ I believe so.” 

“ You believe so ! ” The ring of scorn in her voice was 
indescribable. “ You believe so ! Tell me what you 
really know.” 

“ I know that he was waylaid and murdered.” 

“And for what reason — a common robbery ?” 

“ Yes,” said Manders, slowly. “ I believe it was for the 
sake of some valuables he carried with him.” 

“ Believe, again ! Now, tell me why you believe what 
you believe ; how you know what you know ? ” 

“I cannot,” said Manders, sullenly. 

“ You will not, you mean.” 

“ Well, then, I will not at this moment.” 

‘'Then tell me, at least, your true reason for your hur- 
ried departure — why you wrote that mysterious^ letter — 
why you have shunned me until now ?” 

Manders looked her boldly in the face, and tried to throw 


228 


A CARDINAL SIN 


an expression of passion into his dark eyes. In this he 
succeeded fairly well. 

“ Do you remember,’' he asked, softly, “ how we parted ? 
Or do women forget these things ?” 

“ I remember,” said Frances, coldly. 

“ I was half mad with passion. 1 felt I could not live in 
the same land witli you. 1 was in that state that I might 
have been tempted to kill you and myself. You liave 
heard of sucli things being done 'i ” 

She bowed her head. 

“ My one idea was to place the ocean between us — to 
stay away until 1 had recovered my senses. Then, just 
before I started, I learned something about your father’s 
death — learned it in a way that seems miraculous. I was 
seeking about for an excuse for my cowardly desertion of 
you in your trouble, and this came to my hand. I seized 
it and wrote that letter. After all, I thought, it matters 
little— we shall never meet again.” 

“ So you took the best course to make me determined 
to find you.” There was such incredulity in her voice that 
it was bound to be apparent to her companion. He 
shrugged Ins shoulders. 

“I was very young and very stupid then — I always, as 
you may remember, had a liking for theatrical effects and 
mysteries. Tliat must explain it.” 

Was the man lying or speaking the truth ? Throwing 
her thoughts back, and living again as well as she could 
through the events of those days when she waited, con- 
sumed with anxiety and fear as to her father’s safety — re- 
calling all that Manders said and did at that time, she felt 
almost certain tlie man was lying. Could he — John 
Boucher’s friend — have had any hand in the murder ? 
The idea was horrible — her face grew pale as it came to 
her. It came and clung to her. Then the blood tingled 
through her veins, and she spoke on the impulse of the 
moment 

“ I believe you are lying — you are hiding something 
from me. I know not what it is, or why you conceal it. 
You say you know that my father was murdered, and you 
are the only man, it seems, who knows it. Unless you clear 
the whole thing up, I will have you arrested for the crime 
and force you to speak the truth, if only to save your- 
self.” 

His brow grew black. He knew she was making no 
idle threat, that unless he could satisfy her she would at 


A CAJ^DIJVAL S/J\r. 


229 


once execute it. His estimate of Frances’ character was 
far frc^m being a false one. 

“You are talking like a foolish woman — not like your- 
self,” he said, speaking very coolly, and without any sign 
of agitation. “ If you will listen to me, I will sliow you 
that I am acting in good faith. Sit down again— I hate to 
^talk to anyone standing over me.” 

She sat down. His coolness persuaded her that she 
wronged him by her wild suspicion. If she had done so, 
she was willing, even eager, to apologize. 

“ Please give instructions that we are not to be inter- 
rupted by anyone — not even by your husband.” 

“ My husband is out of town,” she said, ringing the bell, 
and telling the servant she was engaged on business and 
could see no one. 

Allan’s absence was good news for the plotter. If he 
could only ascertain how long it would last, it might facili- 
tate proceedings. 

“ I told 3’ou just now,” he began, “ that although I only 
knew broad facts, I could find out every detail If I did 
not say so, I meant to do so, when your hasty questions 
and ridiculous accusations led me away from the subject.” 

He laid particular stress on “ ridiculous accusations.” 
Frances slightly colored. She had been hasty, and spoken 
foolishly. 

“ Now,” continued Manders, “ if j’-ou take my advice, you 
will be content with what I have told you ; but if you in- 
sist on knowing everything, I will put you in the way of 
doing so.” 

He paused. 

“ Let me know everything,” she said, decidedl3^ 

“ Very well ; if you are determined, I have nothing more 
to urge against it. But listen attentively, and try and 
clearly understand what I am going to say.” 

He spoke very seriously. Frances made a motion of as- 
sent, and waited. 

“ I think you will understand,” he continued, after a 
pause, in which he collected the threads of the web he was 
weaving into the first semblance of coherence, “ that when 
a private man like myself obtains a clue to a crime which 
lias baffled all detective skill, it must be from a peculiar 
source and in a strange manner — in fact, it may be under 
circumstances which a man scarcely likes to make public.” 

Yes. Frances could easily understand that. Manders 
paused again — he was weighing every word. He was like 


230 


A CARDINAL SLN. 


a man cutting, step by step, a path which would lead he 
liardly knew where, but which would permit of no retrac- 
ing ; so he had need to be careful. 

“ In short, I had better say it at once ; many a young man, 
thrown without friends into London, may lead a life which 
he blushes at afterward, and may associate with persons 
he can scarcely name.” 

Frances could quite believe in the life he hinted at, but 
was doubtful as to the subsequent blushes. 

“ I don’t want you to think, Mrs. Bourchier,” continued 
Manders, in charity to himself, “ that I associated with rob- 
bers and murderers ; but you will understand me when I 
say that these may have — well, persons associated with 
them, and these persons may be a connecting link.” 

Feeling his candor must be quite convincing, he went on 
courageously. 

“There, I won’t say anything more about it. I am 
ashamed to be obliged to refer to that period of my life. 
Now, can you by a stretch of imagination comprehend how 
in some way things could have come to my knowledge 
without my having been, as you were good enough to sug- 
gest, an accessory to the crime ? If not, I will sink all 
sense of shame and give you details.” 

“Please spare the details,” said Frances, coldly. “I 
understand.” 

She despised the man, but could not help believing he 
was telling the truth. Unfortunately, she had always un- 
derrated him, and thought him devoid of imagination. A 
low opinion of a rogue’s abilities is sometimes greatly to 
his advantage. 

“Thank you,” he said, gratefully ; “and now, Mrs. 
Bourchier, one thing more. I have never lost sight of this 
affair — it has weighed like lead on my mind. 1 can now 
put you in the way of learning everything — of hanging the 
murderer, if you wish.” 

“ Of course, I wish it.” 

“Tills knowledge has only been mine within the last 
few days. I have now got to the bottom of everything — 
but only under a promise.” 

“ What promise — quick ! ” cried Frances. She was grow- 
ing excited. 

“One of the least guilty of the parties concerned must 
gascot free. I do not even know his name — perhaps I 
shall never know it. But he will put us on the track, so 
surely that no one else will escape.” 


A. CARDhVAL S/JV. 


231 


Manders, as on a former occasion, was growing quite 
interested in his romance. He spoke in such an impres- 
sive way that all his listener’s doubts were vanishing. 

“Let him go,” siie said, “ if it is indispensable.” 

“ It is. Now only one thing more. I must ask you to 
pledge yourself to absolute secrecy. To breathe no word 
of tlie matter for, say, a week — not even to your husband. 
Will you do this?” 

“ I cannot see why it is necessary,” said Frances, whose 
boast was that she had never concealed a thought or an 
action from Allan. 

“It is necessary — my word is given. In a day or two I 
will, if you will promise this, placp you face to face with 
the man I spoke of — the one who is to go free. He can tell 
everything ; but will only tell it to you. From what I 
learn, the information he can give will be ample. Then 
he must be allowed a few days’ grace to get away, and you 
may put the whole matter in your solicitor’s hands.” 

“ Why not come to Mr. Trenfield, my solicitor, and take 
his advice ? ” 

“ Because I am under the same pledge that I wish you 
to take.” 

Frances sat silent. Secrecy was her aversion. Manders 
rose. 

“ It must be as you like,” he said, “ but I can do no more 
in the matter. Even if you tried ail legal methods to make 
me speak, it would be no good. I can tell nothing except 
what I have told you — can reveal no names, describe no 
persons, but the alarm will be given, and all chance of jus- 
tice at an end.” 

A strong, a burning desire to make the murderers of her 
kind father pay the penalty due came over Frances. After 
all she had but to keep silent for a few days. With the 
end in view, tliere could be no harm in doing so. 

“ Then, I promise,” she said. 

“Faithfully — without reservation ?” 

“Faithfully and truly — not even my husband shall 
know’.” 

“I will put things in trim at once. I wall wuite to you. 
You must hold yourself in readiness to come where I shall 
tell you. You are brave, not a coward ?” 

“ I think I am as brave as most w^omen.” 

“Then, when I write, come at once ; make no delay, as 
moments may be precious. You need not be afraid, as 
wherever you go I shall accompany you.” 


232 


A CARDINAL SIN 


“Let it be as soon as possible,” said Frances. “I shall 
be thinking of nothing else.” 

“Oh, yes, you will. You will change your mind, per- 
haps, within half an hour. You will hear me traduced, 
abused, and, it may be, say I am deceiving you. But I am 
not in this thing. Anyway, you will get a letter from me 
within the next two days ; if you don’t follow its instruc- 
tions, I shall know the reason why, and there’s an end of 
it. It’s your concern, not mine.” 

“I have not the slightest idea what you are talking 
about,” said Frances. 

“Of course not. I’ll let some one else enlighten you 
after I’ve gone. It won’t be long before you understand. 
Do you remember my name ?” 

“ Certainly — George Manders.” 

“ Yes — to you it was. You’ll hear me called by another 
name soon. That will be my true name.” 

She was perfectly mystified ; no suspicion of the true 
facts dawned on her. 

“Very well,” said Manders, “never mind now ; but when 
I write to you, come or not, as you choose. Believe every- 
thing bad you hear about me, except that I am an impos- 
tor. It’s too long a tale to tell now ; I’ll tell it next time 
we meet. And believe that in this I am anxious to serve 
you ; for hanging the man who killed your father doesn’t 
matter much to me — does it ?” 

“ I suppose not,” said Frances ; “ but it does to me.” 

“Then trust me in this, and I’ll show you how to do it. 
I’m everything that’s bad — a drunkard and all the rest of 
it ; but you may trust me.” 

Then he left hastily, and Frances sat down to think over 
his words. There was no reason, so far as she could sec, 
why she should not trust him. He had even loved her 
once ; fortunately, he appeared to have cured himself of 
that folly. He could not have called upon her for senti- 
mental reasons. His tale had been fairly credible ; the 
very hints he had let drop as to the way in which he liad 
acquired his knowledge seemed to confirm his words. 
She had no doubt but that the life he had led upon his 
arrival in London had been a vicious one, and she had 
little belief in his conventional expression of regret. His 
explanation of his extraordinary behavior was a trifle lame, 
but she wished to believe him— she wished ardently to see 
her father’s murderers within the grasp of the law. What- 
ever he may have done, whatever she might hear in his dis- 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


233 


favor, it seemed clearly in his power to bring this about. 
Yes, in spite of everything, she would trust the man so 
far. He could have no motive in deceiving her about this 
particular thing. Having made up her mind, she went in 
search of Josephine. 

Josephine was in her room, the door of which she had 
locked and bolted. Frances knocked at it. 

“ Let me in, dear,” siie said. 

“Who is it ?” asked Josephine, cautiously. 

“It is I — Frances.” 

“ Are you quite alone — no one with you ? ” 

“No ; I am quite alone. Open the door.” 

“ You give me your word there is no one with you ?” 

Frances wondered if her guest were losing her senses. 

“ Of course I’m alone if 1 tell you so,” she said, feeling 
much annoyed at the doubt expressed. 

Josephine opened the door timidly ; but before she ad- 
mitted Frances, glanced up and down tlie landing. Seeing 
no sign of an enemy, she let her visitor enter, taking the 
precaution of relocking the door after her. 

“ Wiiat are you afraid of ?” asked Frances, smiling. 

“ Is he gone ? Oh, say he is gone ! ” 

“Is who gone ? ” 

It seemed impossible that Josephine should be referring 
to George Manders. 

“ The wretched man you have been talking to so 
long.” 

Josepliine spoke almost scornfully. 

“Yes, lie has just left. He was an old acquaintance, 
whom I have not seen for some years. What is the mat- 
ter, Josephine 1 ” 

For Josephine had risen, and was looking her full in the 
face with an expression which puzzled lier greatly. 

“ Oh ! ” she exclaimed, “ Frances, why did you tell me 
over and over again you had never seen him, never knew 
him ! Yet, as soon as he comes, you are ready to rush into 
his arms.” 

“Please explain yourself,” said Frances, quietly. “I 
am not in the habit of rushing into anyone’s arms.” 

“ I have been doing all I can to keep out of his way, and 
as soon as he comes here you welcome him, and call him 
an old friend.” 

“Josephine, you are losing your senses. What in the 
world has the gentleman who called to see me to do with 
you?” 


234 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


“ Everything, unfortunately ; being the man I despise 
most in tlie world — my husband.” 

“ Your husband ! ” 

Yes, my husband, Digby Bourchier ; the man you had 
never seen.” 

Frances felt incredulous. 

“Josephine,” she said, “it is impossible ; you are mak- 
ing a mistake.” 

“ I am sorry to say I know him too well to make a mis- 
take. Did he not want to see me ? ” 

“ He never even mentioned your name.” 

“ Then what did he come for ? ” 

“ He came to see me,” said Frances, who was beginning 
to understand the mysterious words spoken by Manders 
just before leaving her. 

“Josephine,” she asked, “you are certain you are right?” 

“ I am as certain as I am his wife. It’s nonsense talk- 
ing like this. What did he want ?” 

Frances did not answer this question. 

“When I knew him,” she said, “ he went by the name 
of Well, another name entirely. I can’t understand it.” 

“ I dare say he’s gone by twenty names.” 

“Yet it was your father who introduced him to you as 
your cousin, Digby Bourchier.” 

“Yes, but papa may have been deceived. Oh, Frances, 

I am awfully distressed that you should know him, or have 
any dealings with him. Tell me all you know about him.” 

Frances mused ; the whole matter was growing very 
complicated. She could not explain her connection with 
Josephine’s husband without telling her everything ; and 
she had bound herself to secrecy, for a few days at any 
rate. She was thinking over all she knew about Manders, 
and wondered whether his assertion, that the name she 
would find he bore was his rightful one, was true. He 
might be a bad man without being an impostor. He 
might be the hero of a romance, and have found since they 
parted that his birth was different to wliat it was always 
thought to be. No, she would tell Josephine nothing — she 
would even, although she now regretted the promise, tell 
Allan nothing until the week had passed by. She raised 
lier eyes and looked gravely at Josephine, who was anx- 
iously awaiting her reply. 

“ I am more perplexed and astonished than I can de- 
scribe,” she said. “ I have reasons for telling you no more 
at present, than that this man, your husband, when I knew 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


235 


him was in a totally different position of life. We were 
thrown together and knew each other intimately for a long 
time. By and by I will tell you his history as far as "l 
know it, but I can’t for a while say anything more about 
him.” 

“Of course I shall tell Allan he came,” said Josephine, 
with a dissatisfied air. 

Frances reflected. 

“ I would rather you did not mention it ; as for a few 
days I should be bound to give Allan the same answer I 
give you.” 

Josephine felt the old mistrust, which she had never thor- 
oughly conquered, arising again. 

“I think Allan ought to know exactly who your old 
friends are,” she said, in such a way that Frances looked 
both pained and surprised. 

“Then tell him, by all means,” she said, coldly. 

Josephine saw she had vexed her. 

“ Oh, Frances ! ” she cried, “ don’t be cross with me ; I 
am so unhappy, and so afraid of you. You won’t let him 
come here again, will you ? If I am troubling you by 
staying here, I will go away to Shortlands or to Redhills ; 
but don’t let my husband come here again.” 

Frances melted at the little woman’s grief. She took 
her in her arms and kissed her. 

“No,” she said, “be quite easy about that. He shan’t 
come here again.” 

“When does Allan come back ?” asked Josephine, pres- 
ently. 

“The day after to-morrow, I hope. We shall get a let- 
ter in the morning.” 

“I wish he were here now,” said Josephine. 

“ So do I,” said Frances ; and Josephine felt easier as 
she heard her wish echoed so sincerely. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“l WILL COME.” 

Allan was down in Westshire ; not, however, at Red- 
hills. Ever since his return from America he had been 
thinking and thinking how to commence the journey to 
eminence ; how to make a career for himself. Only one 


236 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


way seemed clearly open to him, that was Parliament 
Hitherto, he had resolved to wait for a few years, or until 
the seat held by his father was again vacant, it being un- 
derstood that tlie member who succeeded Mr. Bourchicr 
would not again present liimself for election. Allan be- 
lieved he would be invited to occupy the seat as soon as 
the opportunity came. 

Recently his views had changed ; he was now eager to 
get into the House for any borougli, however small, whicli 
would accept him. He liad plenty of confidence in him- 
self, and determined to devote himself to politics until he 
held such a position that he could beg the wife he loved 
to renounce her task of ministering to the amusements of 
the people, in order to aid him in graver and more ambi- 
tious aims. Urged on by love and ambition, Allan felt 
sanguine as to his eventual success. 

He liad made his father acquainted with his wishes, and 
found him willing to do all in his power to gratify them. 
As soon as a suitable chance should occur Mr. Bourchier 
promised that he would furnish the sinews of war. So 
Allan was at present on the look-out for a borough which, 
as a preliminary step, would accept liim as the candidate 
of the party he favored. 

There being a rumor in the wind that the chief party 
wire-puller at Hansford liad his member’s resignation in 
his pocket, ready to produce at a convenient opportunity, 
Allan, at the request of some of the opposition wire- 
pullers, had gone down to the little* town. Hansford being 
only some thirty-five miles from Redton, he was no stranger 
there ; and as neither of the parties was in an overwhelm- 
ing majority, it was felt that a candidate whose family was 
so inliuential in the county would be the very person to 
rev^erse 'the decision given by the constituency at the last 
election. So Allan was mad'c welcome, and stav'ed thCrc'for 
two or three days, seeing influential people and generally 
preparing his way for' the struggle \v hie h might any day 
commence. 

He had heard that his father was far from well, so de- 
. termined, after his business at Hunsford was over, to go 
across to Redhills and spend the day there. He wrote to 
his wife to this effect, saying he should not return'till the 
latter end of the week. Then he felt compelled to be in 
town, as Mdlle. Francesca appeared on the opening night 
of the operatic season in one of her most celebrated char- 
acters. 


A CARD/ArAL SIN. 


237 

He had other business also which called him back to 
town, and it was partly this business which took him to 
Redhills. When Josephine came to his house in the dead 
of night with the cruel red marks on her arm, he had 
sworn that slie should be freed once and forever from the 
villain who had so treated her. It was with great difficulty 
he had been kept from visiting Digby the next day and 
administering a satisfactory thrashing. Josephine and 
Frances at last persuaded him to leave the matter to the 
law to settle. He had thereupon consulted his solicitor, 
but had as yet given him no definite instructions. With- 
out seeing his father, he scarcely liked to take such a re- 
sponsibility upon himself. Mr. Bourchier, although he was 
now greatly broken in health, had always been accustomed 
to lay down the law to Allan ; and that law had always 
been a wise, salutary, as well as a kind one. A few days 
could make no difference, so nothing had been done as yet. 

Frances, for some reasons, was not sorry that her hus- 
band did not intend to return immediately. She was much 
exercised in endeavoring to form a true opinion about 
George Manders. He had warned her so distinctly that 
she would hear strange things about him when his back 
was turned. He had not even tried to defend or explain 
away his conduct toward his wife. He tacitly admitted the 
truth of all the accusations brought against him ; but, then, 
his treatment of Josephine now had nothing to do with 
events some years ago. He might be the worst husband 
in the world, but there was nothing in that to prevent his 
being able to obtain the information Frances was craving 
for. She felt that now the chance of finding out all con- 
cerning her father’s death was at hand, she must take it. 
She thought and thought ; tried to persuade herself that 
he was, for some reason known only to himself, deceiving 
her ; but after looking at the matter in every possible light, 
could not help believing that in this at least he was speak- 
ing in good faith. Her meditations made her so absent 
and preoccupied during the leisure moments she had that 
day and the next, that Josephine could not help noticing 
her mood, and could only attribute it to the one and, in a 
way, the right cause — the visit paid by her husband. She 
was longing for Allan to return. She could not quite de- 
cide whether to tell him of Frances’s expressive welcome 
to Digby, and of the prolonged interview between the two, 
or whether to let Frances inform him at her own pleasura 
Still she wished that Allan was home. 


238 


A CARDJjVAL snv. 


She dared not stir out of the house for fear of meeting 
Digby. She could not for a moment believe that he had 
come solely to see Frances. In her agitation she had no- 
ticed the look of surprise on his face — a genuine look ; 
and knew he had come for her ; had most likely followed 
her and Mrs. Melville home. She almost wished she had 
not taken those papers, feeling sure that he would not 
make the efforts she knew he was making to gain an inter- 
view with her for her own sake. However, no one should 
see them or know of their existence until she had placed 
them in her father’s hands. She would not even again 
examine them. 

It was the morning after the ominous visit that Allan’s 
letter, saying he should not return for a couple of days, ar- 
rived. Josephine, who could not help noting every look, 
every word of Frances’s, fancied she betrayed little sorrow 
or annoyance at his prolonged absence. She blamed her- 
self for thinking that the absence of regret meant rejoicing. 
Had she dared, she would have telegraphed and bade him 
return at once. Fortunately, her good sense told her that 
such an unwarrantable act of interference would be justly 
resented by Frances, and most likely by Allan as well. 

Josephine did not see much of her sister-in-law on the 
day when Allan’s letter arrived. Mdlle. Francesca was 
fully occupied. It was Thursday, and on Saturday her re- 
appearance in opera was announced. She was, of course, 
rather anxious as to whether the fickle public would con- 
tinue to be pleased with her efforts, and with her usual 
conscientiousness spared no labor to insure a fav’orable 
verdict. There was little fear as to the result ; all who 
were competent to judge, and by rehearsals privileged to 
judge, asserted that her voice was stronger and more en- 
chanting than ever. Still, with all the many things she 
liad to think about, the promised communication from 
George Manders was seldom out of her mind. As late as 
Thursday night she had heard nothing from him, 

Pcrliaps the reason was that he had been very busy since 
he had left her. He saw clearly that a crisis in his affairs 
was at hand. Could he have regained possession of his 
papers he would have gone straight to Redhills, wrung 
what he could out of Mr. Bourchier, and vanished with his 
ill-gotten spoil, letting everything arrange itself as best it 
could without his interference. Now his first and fore- 
most task was to insure Frances’s silence. This must be 
done at any cost, even at any crime. Let him only keep 


A CARDIJVAL S/JT. 


239 


Frances quiet for a month — even a fortnight — then he 
would have time to settle things. He might even tell Mr. 
Bourchier, if necessary, that Josephine held the certificates 
— ^this would be equivalent to placing them in his hands. 
But as soon as Allan learned he was George Manders, the 
man iiis wife had been looking for high and low, the game, 
as far as golden stakes were concerned, was up. He wished 
now he iiad not spared Allan — that he had revealed all to 
liim. Judging him by his own standard, he believed hush- 
money would have been forthcoming. Yes, he had been 
too clever. 

However, if hard work could repair mistakes, he was 
doing his best that way on the Thursday. He was up at 
an unusually early hour and down at the little place some 
twenty miles out of London. He spent several hours in 
the quiet cottage, and although he was quite alone, and 
two or three blisters on his hands told that he had been 
working hard at some manual labor, he appeared entirely 
satisfied with the result of his unwonted solitude and un- 
usual exertions. He locked up the uninhabited house and 
in the afternoon went back to town. 

He had just time to see his stock-broker, who by his di- 
rections had that day closed all his ventures. The last 
money he had extorted from Mr. Bourchier was coming 
rapidly to an end. A few hundred pounds only remained. 
Days were slipping by, and the forged bill had not been 
taken up. His affairs were indeed getting to a crisis ! 

In the evening he went back to his hotel, the Langham, 
and telling the cashier he should want his bill in the morn- 
ing, sent a waiter for a Continental Bradshaw. He pro- 
fessed himself intensely stupid with respect to the mys- 
teries of time-tables, and made inc[uiries of two or three 
officials at the hotel as to the best and quickest way of 
getting to Nice. Could one book a sleeping carriage from 
Paris ? Would it be better to telegraph to have one — no, 
two places kept for him ? His questions gav^e everyone 
who heard them the idea that he started with a friend to- 
morrow morning with the intention of getting to Nice as 
soon as possible. He left instructions that any letters 
should be forwarded to Digby Bourchier, Poste Restante, 
Nice ; and in the morning, having paid his bill, told the 
porter to call a cab to take him to Charing Cross. 

Yet he did not go directly to Charing Cross. Half-way 
down Regent Street he told the cabman to drive to Cav- 
ersham Place, and stop at the corner. 


24© 


A CARDINAL SUV. 


“ Get a boy or someone to take a letter, ’ he said. 

A messenger was found, and was instructed to take a 
letter to No. — , and wait for an answer. The letter was 
addressed to Mrs. Allan Bourchier, and was duly delivered 
at the right house ; but the answer was so long in coming 
that the writer of the letter had to pay both messenger and 
cabman for the time tiiey had waited for it. 

But it came at last, and its purport seemed satisfactory, 
as the occupant of the cab laughed, paid the messenger 
handsomely, and then told the driver to go to Charing 
Cross as fast as the horse could travel. 

Knowing instinctively a customer who would not haggle 
about a fare, the hansom was sped along at a rate which 
almost defeated its impeller’s ends, rendering him liable to 
being stopped for violent driving. Eitlicr it went too 
quickly, or the guardians of the street were not quick 
enough to stop its headlong career, as the occupant was 
able to catch the eleven o’clock train, not, as may be sup- 
posed, to Nice, but to B — , the little village, or town I be- 
lieve it is called, within such a convenient distance of Lon- 
don. So quickly did the cab cover the distance, tliat Digby 
Bourchier, or George Manders, whichever name we choose 
to call him by, liad ample time to leave his luggage at the 
cloak-room and go down to B — perfectly unencumbered. 

The answer he had waited for at the corner of Caversham 
Place was a very laconic one. It consisted of three words ; 
but the words were — “ I will come.” 

Brief as the reply was, it gave the writer a great deal of 
trouble to pen it. The letter which demanded the answer 
had readied her at breakfast-time. As a rule a prima 
donna is not an early riser, but Mdlle. Francesca liked 
breakfast at a decent hour, unless her exertions of the 
previous night rendered late rising an absolute necessity. 
She, Mrs. Melville, and Josepliine were lingering over their 
breakfasts when the note arrived. They were toying with 
a dish of early-forced strawberries, which some noble 
friend had sent as a welcome offering to the celebrated 
singer. Tlie tips of all the ladies’ fingers were pink with 
the juice of the delicious fruit, which they ate in the most 
sensible manner, taking the berry by the stalk, dipping the 
apex of the rosy cone in sugar, and then putting it into its 
legitimate receptacle. Frances read the letter, and, look- 
ing very grave, replaced it in the envelope, which lay face 
upward beside her plate. In a mechanical way she went 
on eating her strawberries. 


A CARDIiVAL sm. 


241 


Josephine’s quick eye had caiig-ht the writin She 
knew well enougn whose it was. Why slionld this inaii-'^ 
the worst man in the Avorld — be wilting to Frances ?, 
What could it all mean ? And Frances ate her straw- 
berries, with her eyes, it seemed, looking into vacancy. 
Mrs. Melville remarked that the servant said someone was 
waiting for an answer. Frances made no reply — she was 
tliinking what to do. Josephine would have given a great 
deal to have known the contents of that letter froni her 
husband. 

She would not have been much enlightened had the 
letter been ]iassed to her for perusal. She might, know- 
ing what she knew of Digby’s ways, have been more fright- 
ened — nothing else. It ran thus : 

“ I have arranged everything. If you would know all, 

go to Charing Cross ; take the 12.30 to B . Take the 

road to the village, and walk on until you meet me. You 
cannot miss your way. The man I spoke of is ready to 
see you, and will speak of everytliing. If you don’t come 
by the train I name I shall conclude you have changed 
your mind. D. B. 

“ P. S. — Remember, I do not urge you. Even now I 
think you had better let the thing rest. I need not say, if 
you come, you must come alone.” 

Wliat answer vras she to give ? To a certain extent she 
mistrusted the man as much as even Josephine did. Yet, 
v.'hv in this one thing should he play her false ? What 
l.ad he to gain ? Nothing — absolutely nothing. He did 
not Tirge her to obey his summons — he seemed quite indif- 
fei'cnt whether she came or not. No evil could result 
from her o-oing for an hour or two to a little village like 

B , moreover in broad daylight. She was acccuintable 

t ) none but Allan, and he was away. Come wliat will she 
must learn her father’s fate. ‘ And as she thought of the 
fatlier who had always been so fond of her, the victim of 
cowardly assassins, the blood rose to her cheek, and her 
whole face seemed to imply that she had taken a great re- 
solve. Then she drew the letter once more from the 
cover and reperused it. Who can blame Josephine, who 
saw tlie look, the flush, and the action, misinterpreting, 
under the circumstances, their true meaning. 

Posts(U-ipts arc important things. It was that careless 
postscriot that made Frances decide to follow the instruc- 
16 


242 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


tions of the letter. It was the off-hand, I-don’t-care-if-you- 
conie way that gave her faith in the writer’s integrity. With 
Josephine still watching her, she tore the fly-leaf from the 
letter, scribbled three words on it, put the paper in an 
envelope, and without addressing it sent it to the waiting 
messenger. 

“ You never get a moment’s peace, my dear,” cried Mrs. 
Melville, picking out one or two of the ripest strawberries 
and putting them on Frances’s plate. 

Frances thanked her with a smile. 

“ I want a time-table,” she said. 

The time table was brought. She looked at it, and veri- 
fied the time given in the letter. ABC time-tables are 
a great boon, especially to women. As Frances passed 
the finger down the column which told of the departure of 

trains for B , the juice of the strawberries made a little 

rosy mark on the margin of the page. Josephine noticed 
this. 

“Will you want the brougham this morning, ma’am ? ” 
asked the servant, who came in to clear away the break- 
fast things. “ The coachman is down-stairs.” 

“Yes ; I shall want it at twelve o’clock,” said Frances. 

The brougham came as ordered. “Charing Cross,” she 
said, stepping into it. Josephine noticed that she was 
dressed in the quietest and simplest garb ; that she carried 
a thick veil in her hand. She felt that something terrible 
was going to happen. Allan away — the letter coming — 
Frances’s unmistakable preoccupation — the hastily scrib- 
bled answer — the reference to the time table — the brough- 
am ordered, and the departure alone, with no word as to 
returning. She grew very nervous, and as soon as Mrs. 
Melville was called away to housekeeping duties, flew to 
the time-table. Her worst fears were confirmed. On the 

very page which bore the name of B was the pink stain 

which had been transferred from Frances’s finger. And 
B was the postmark and even the address of those let- 

ters which she had taken from the safe on the night when 
Digby, her husband, in his drunken rage, had struck her. 
Frances had gone to B . 

Ought she telegraph to Allan ? She dared not. After 
all, she could not yet bring herself to think ill of Frances. 
Her very knowledge of Digby’s villanous character made 
her believe in the absurdity of such an idea. But yet, had 
she not been deceived by him ? Had she not once — how 
long ago it seemed to be ! — looked on him as the noblest)^ 


A CARDINAL SIN 


243 


most splendid man in the world ? Why should not another 
be deceived by his pretences and glamour ? So poor little 
Josephine, feeling she could do nothing except iiope for 
the best, and thinking that matters were getting far beyond 
her comprehension, sat down and cried, and longed for 
Allan to return. 

Uneasy as she felt from the first, she grew more and 
more so as the afternoon went on without Frances reap- 
pearing. Dinner-time came, but brought no sign of or 
message from her. Mrs. Melville thought she must have 
been detained at the theatre, but felt no anxiety about her. 
After waiting an hour, tlie two ladies sat down to an un- 
satisfactory meal, one of them expecting, the other hoping, 
that every moment would bring back the absent one. 

After dinner Josephine grew thoroughly frightened •, 
even Mrs. Melville felt nervous at such a prolonged ab- 
sence on the part of Frances. Now that, in her innermost 
heart, Josephine dreaded the worst that could happen, she 
began to tell herself that her suspicions and fears were lu- 
dicrous. Frances had met or called on some friends, and 
had been persuaded to stay with them. Very probably she 
had gone to Mrs. Trenfield’s. She was saying, only two days 
ago, that she must go down and see them. Yes, Josephine 
and Mrs. Melville agreed, she must have gone to the Tren- 
fields’. But, in spite of their certainty, they sent to the 
stables for the coachman to learn whither he had driven 
Frances that morning. He had driven her to Charing 
Cross ; she had gone somewhere by train — did not know 
when she should be back — had no further orders to give. 
That was all the coachman knew. 

Josephine’s heart sunk. Frances would not have gone to 
Charing Cross if her intention had been to visit Twicken- 
ham, where the Trenfields lived. Should she telegraph 
to Allan ? No, she must wait until to-morrow morning. 
If she telegraphed now, Frances might be back the next 
moment. Mrs. Melville felt little anxiety as to her safety. 
She sat knitting a pair of mittens, and feeling sure that 
Frances upon her return presently would explain her ab- 
sence in a very simple manner. But Mrs. Melville did not 
know certain things with which Josephine was acquainted. 

The two women sat up all night. As the hours wore on, 
Mrs. Melville began to catch somewhat of Josephine’s un- 
spken fears. The hour for returning from any party or en- 
tertainment had long passed ; besides, Frances liad not left 
the house attired for anything of the kind. It was much 


244 


A CAKDIA'AL SLY. 


too late to think of telegraphing to any country place. 
Notlung could be done until the morning. So, weary of 
waLching and waiting, Mrs. Melville fell asleep on the 
sofa, while Josephine caught a few fitful snatches of slum- 
ber in tlie recesses of an casy-chair. 

Morning broke — Frances had not returned. Josephine 
awoke from the sleep to which, in spite of her uncomfort- 
able attitude, she had at last quite succumbed, and aroused 
her companion. 

“ She has not come back — something must be done,” 
she said. 

“Allan must be telegraphed for at once,” said Mrs. 
Melville, wlio now was as frightened as Josephine. 

But they were loath to do so, and once more began sug- 
gesting reasons for Frances’s absence, and tried to believe 
she would return by breakfast-time. Then they decided 
to wait an liour longer — till nine o’clock ; then, if they 
heard nothing from her, to telegraph. 

Nine o’clock came, but no Frances. The coachman 
was once more sent for and re-examined, but he could add 
notliing to his previous statement. He had driven his 
mistress to Charing Cross, and there had been dismissed. 
He was positive she had no bag nor personal luggage of 
any description ; was certain she had no intention of start- 
ing on a long journey. 

“Josephine,” said Mrs. Melville, in an awed whisper, 
“ do you think it could be possible that any of the other 
singers who arc so jealous of her success could have en- 
ticed her away ? ” 

“No, I don’t,” replied Josephine, who was busy writing 
the telegrams. 

Two messages were sent — one to Allan’s address at 
Hunsford, the other to Redhills, so that he might by no 
means be missed. It wms fortunate that the Redhills one 
was sent, as Allan, having finished his business at Huns- 
ford, liad gone across there the first thing in the morning. 
He had scarcely entered his father’s house when the mes- 
sage was delivered to him. “ Come back at once — you 
are wanted — do not delay,” it ran. Being sent by Josepli- 
ine, he knew that he was w’anted back for Frances’s 
sake. Something had happened to his wife, or the tele- 
gram would have been sent from her. He turned pale, 
but said nothing. Glancing at his watch he saw the time 
was ten o’clock. He had not a moment to spare. He 
knew the times of the trains from Brackley by heart ; 


A CARD/N-AL SIN. 


245 


there was nothing he could catch from that station which 
would enable him to get to town before six o’clock in the 
evening. He must drive to Blacktown and catch the mid- 
day express — he had two hours and ten minutes to do it 
in — the distance of good twenty miles. Every moment 
was precious. 

He ran across to the stables. 

“ Put the fastest horse in the lightest trap,” he said ; 
‘‘ don’t waste a moment — it is life and death.” 

Tlien he ran back to the house, and in a few hurried 
words told his mother what had happened. Mr. Bourchier 
not being down-stairs, he was saved any explanation with 
him. In less than two minutes he was in the liglit dog- 
cart, with the reins in his hands. 

“No,” he said to the groom, who was ready to spring 
up behind; “I don’t want more weight than I can help. 
You come by the next train to Blacktown. I will send the 
horse and trap to the Railway Inn.” 

He waved his hand to Mrs. Bourchier and drove off, 
not at a headlong pace, but in the manner of one who 
knows he must get every ounce he can out of his horse, 
and, moreover, quite understands how to do so. 

Allan had driven over that road hundreds of times, but 
had never found Steepsides so precipitous, or the name 
of Littlesteep invested with such a grim sarcasm. He 
dared not hurry his horse up and down these and other 
terrible hills ; but when comparatively level ground was 
reached, he called upon him to do liis best. 

He was just in time. Tossing the reins and half a 
crown to the first respectable-looking man he could see 
who was on the lookout for chance employment, he told 
him to lead the horse to the inn, and say Mr. Bourchier’s 
man would come about it later on ; then he entered the 
express a second before it started, and by three o’clock 
was at Caversham Place, in a state of mind the worse be- 
cause he did not know what bad news he had to liear. 

He rushed into the house, and was met by his sister 
and Mrs. Melville. He saw by their grave looks that he 
had been recalled on no trivial matter. Where was his 
wife ? 

“ Frances ! ” he cried, looking about as if trying to find 
her. “Where is Frances? Tell me ! Is she ill? Where 
is she ? ” 

“ She is not ill, I am glad to say,” said Mrs. Melville. 

Allan felt greatly relieved. 


246 


A CARDIXAL SIX. 


“Where is she? Why did you telegraph me? You 
frightened me to death, Josephine.” 

He looked at his sister, but she said nothing. Allan 
grew impatient. 

“Will you tell me what is the matter?” he exclaimed. 

“We are growing anxious about Frances,” said Mrs. 
Melville. “She has disappeared.” 

“ Disappeared ! What do you mean ? ” 

“ We have not seen her since yesterday morning. We 
don’t know where she went to ; so thought it better to 
telegraph.” 

“ I don’t understand you. Where did my wife go ?” 

“ She went off by train somewhere from Charing Cross.” 

“Well,” said Allan, “what of that? She must have 
stayed tiie night with some friends.” 

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Melville, confidently, and shaking 
her head. “ She has nothing with her — no luggage of any 
kind. People like Frances don’t stay away at friends’, 
with only the clothes they wear on their backs.” 

“She must have gone to the Trenfields’,” said Allan. 

“We sent to Mr. Trenfield’s office this morning. He 
had seen nothing of her.” 

“ Have you seen the manager — perhaps he knows ? ” 

“ He called just now, but had heard nothing from her, 
Oh, Mr. Bourchier, she must have met with some acci. 
dent, or been enticed away for some purpose.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! ” said Allan ; but all the same he begarv 
to grow very nervous. He heard all the particulars Mrs. 
Melville could give, and for his own satisfaction siim^ 
moned the coachman once more, and heard the little 
he knew. He was bound to acknowledge that Josephine 
had acted wisely in sending for him, and was considering 
what was the best thing to do to trace his wife. Yet he 
felt averse to take any steps in that direction, thinking the 
situation was most likely allowable of the simplest expla- 
nation — a letter not posted — a telegram not sent, or mis- 
directed — a message not delivered would account for every- 
tiiing. 

All’the while Mrs. Melville had been the chief spokes- 
man. Josephine had only spoken a few words to confirm 
her narrative when called upon so to do. Slie had sug- 
gested no theory, nor volunteered any consoling supposi- 
tion. Mrs. Melville had soon made him acquainted with 
all that was to be known ; she had even broached her ex- 
traordinary idea as to the form professional jealousy might 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


247 

take, an idea which, in spite of his anxiety, made Allan 
smile. 

He was fairly puzzled, but not a suspicion of evil en- 
tered into his head. He sat tugging at his thick mustache, 
trying to settle on a course of action, hoping that every 
moment would bring Frances or some news of her which 
would make the whole affair end in a hearty laugh. Then 
he turned toward Josephine, who was looking at him with 
a tender pitying expression in her eyes. She was sum- 
moning up her courage for the painful task before her. 
Although she had not breathed such a thought to Mrs. 
Melville, she was now convinced that wherever Frances 
had gone she had gone with Digby Bourchier. 

“What do you think about it, Josephine ?” said Allan. 

He must be told. Her face grew pale. 

“Allan,” she said, “let me say a few words to you 
alone.” 

“Certainly,” replied Allan ; “don’t rise, Mrs. Melville,” 
he added, as that lady sliowed symptoms of retreating. 
“We will go into the other room.” 

He led his sister into the dining-room. 

“I can’t talk about your affairs with this in suspense,” 
he said kindly. “Wait until Frances returns.” 

He was beginning to feel a little tired, so threw himself 
into a chair. Josephine kneeled beside him, and put her 
arms round his neck. He knew that she was crying. 

“ Poor little girl,” lie said, stroking her hair. “ I am 
forgetting that you have troubles too. Tell me what is 
wrong ; but be as quick as you can, as we are wasting time, 
and 1 want to be doing something.” 

She held his hands. “ Allan,” she said, “ it is your trou- 
bles I am thinking of — don’t hate me forever if I tell you 
what I know.” 

A deadly chill came over him. There was something 
coming — he dared not think what. Josephine saw the look 
of fear in his eyes. 

“ Oh, Allan ! ” she cried wildly, “ Frances has gone — ■ 
gone forever with that villain, that fiend, my husband !” 


248 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


CHAPTER XXL 

FALLEN INTO A TRAP. 

Upon reaching Charing Cross F'ranccs had dismissed 

her carriage and taken a first-class return ticket to B . 

She inquired at what junction she must change trains, and 
being instructed as to the right route reached her destina- 
tion in due course, and stepping from the station to the 
high road, Avondered if she had undertaken a wise or a 
foolish adventure. However, having come so far, she was 
not going to return without attaining her object. Besides 
the great end she had in view, she wished to see Manders 
again and receive his explanation as to the change of his 
name ; to learn if he were sailing under false colors, or had 
a right to claim kinship with lier husband’s family. If he 
were an impostor, her knowledge of his former condition 
in life would be useful to Josephine, Avho was longing to 
be freed from her cruel and worthless husband. So, in- 
tent upon the accomplishment of both missions, she took 
the road as indicated by Mander’s letter and walked on 
with a quick and resolute step. 

It was a beautiful spring — almost summer — day. A 
walk was a great treat to Frances, who was- in splendid 
liealth. Slie rejected with scorn the assistance offered by 
the one frowsy cab at the little station, and w’alked on till 

she came to B , through the long street of which she 

passed, followed by many curious eyes. She had notliing 
to conceal, so her veil was not brought into requisition. 
As she found what an innocent sleepy little country place 
she had come to, her doubts vanished. No evil could be 
intended by bringing her down to this quiet place. She 
walked on more confidently, wondering how long it would 
be before she encountered Manders. As soon as she was 
clear of the village she felt inclined, moved by the sun- 
shine and fresh air, to burst into song. She was quite en- 
joying her walk. Flowers were growing by the wayside, 
humble little flowers, but she stooped every now and then 
and picked one or two, until she had quite a posy of them, 
She smiled at the absurdity of her action — picking wild 
flowers when she was bent upon an errand of vengeance. 
She blamed herself for forgetting her object for a mo- 
ment ; threw the flowers away and walked on with a 
quicker step. 


249 


A CARDINAL SIN. 

She must have been half a mile from B when the 

man she expected to see rose from the bank at the side 
of tile road and came to meet her. He saluted her po- 
litely. ^ 

“ I told you, you could not miss the way,” he said. 

They walked on side by side for a short distance. 

“Where are you going?” asked Frances. 

“ Only a few steps further. The house is close by.” 

Then they came to one of those palings which seem pe- 
culiar to places in the vicinity of London. Gray wood 
palings, about six feet higli ; formed by over-lapping 
staves. They look very ugly and out of place round a 
gentleman’s grounds, but no doubt have merits which 
permit them to exist. 

“ We must go in here,” said Manders, stopping at the 
gate, which he unlocked and held open. 

Frances hesitated. Her mistrust began to awake. To 
hear the confession of an accessory to a fell crime, it would 
have seemed more natural had she been conducted to the 
slums of London. Manders saw her indecision and 
shrugged his slioulders. 

“ Turn back, even now, if you like,” he said. “I have 
arranged everything, but that doesn’t matter.” 

“ Is the man you spoke of living here ? ” 

“ He is here at present. He will be gone to-morrow. 
You see his friends arc respectable ; although, after all, 
the house inside is but a cottage, as you will see.” 

Should she turn back ? Even at the moment when, if 
she could to this limited extent trust her companion, she 
was on the threshold of learning all. She glanced at hitn. 
He was tapping the key on the gate post, and apparently 
accompanying a tune he was humming. It appeared to 
him a matter of supreme indifference how she might de- 
cide. No, she would go on. 

She passed through the gate, which he locked behind 
her. She found herself in a large, untidy, uncared-for 
garden, through which a moss-grown gravel path led to 
what hjoked like a small, low white house. The path was 
tortuous and shrubs grew on 'bach side, so that she was 
only able to see that her guide had been quite right in 
calling the house a cottage. The whole place had a neg- 
lected, dirty, deserted appearance, but this partially re- 
assured her. It might not be at all impossible that the 
man she wanted to see should be an inmate of this un- 
kempt and slovenly establishment. 


250 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


George Manders said no more until they were close to 
the house ; then he stopped. 

“Would you mind waiting here, behind these shrubs, a 
minute, Mrs. Bourchier,” he said. “I must go on and 
prepare them for our coming, or we shall not be admitted.” 

This seemed reasonable enough, under the peculiar 
circumstances. Frances was now growing greatly excited. 
She assented, but waited impatiently. 

She was not kept long in suspense. Manders was only 
away long enough to unlock the front door and change 
the key from the outside to the inside of the lock ; then, 
leaving the door open, he returned to her. 

“ We must be quick,” he said, with more excitement 
than he had yet shown. “Some one, I fancy, is trying to 
influence him. Come at once.” 

And Frances, without another thought or glance at 
where she was going, followed his quick step across a 
little lawn, and entered the door he held open. It struck 
her the house smelt damp, and the passage she stood in 
seemed dark. Manders threw open a door on the left 
hand. 

“ Please step in there,” he said. She obeyed. The 
room was almost dark ; only lit by the light which came 
through the open doors. 

“ Ah, the shutters not opened ! ” said Manders in a tone 
of surprise. “ One moment, I will make that all right.” 

Then she heard him slam the front door, and every- 
thing was darkness. She heard the key turned hastily, 
and more than that, heard a low chuckle which accom- 
panied that operation. In a second she realized her posi- 
tion. She had been cheated, fooled, entrapped ! This 
man was the absolute villain Josephine had asserted him 
to be. She made a mad rush forward, and in the darkness 
her shoulder struck with great force against the lintel of 
the door. She almost fell, and was groping blindly in the 
darkness when she felt herself caught hold of, and, in 
spite of her resistance, forced back into the room, the door 
of which was closed and locked by her assailant. She was 
alone with this man, locked up in a house, too far, she 
guessed, from any other habitation for her cries to be 
heard. 

Her one impulse was to escape from his hands. Stum- 
bling over chairs, she reached what seemed to her the far- 
thest side of the room. Not a ray of light from window 
or door broke the gloom. She could hear her assailairt 


A CARD/, VAL SIN. 


251 


moving about ; she heard him remove the key from the 
lock, and try if the door was firmly fastened. Then she 
heard the scraping of a match, and there was light again. 
She welcomed it — anything was better than that dreadful 
darkness. By the rays of the vesta she could see George 
Manders’s dark eyes full of a wicked triumph. 

He was still near the door, and she found herself stand- 
ing by the fireplace. The room was a small one. On her 
right was a window, or what she supposed was a window, 
although its semblance was hidden by what appeared to 
be a carpet several times folded, covering it entirely, and, 
it seemed, nailed to the shutters. On her left was a fold- 
ing door, opening, she concluded, into a back room. She 
saw in a glance that the trap she had fallen into had been 
laid with diabolic skill, and her heart sank as it told her 
that the object which had called for the exercise of such 
ingenuity must be a serious one. 

Strong, muscularly strong, as she was for a woman, she 
knew the hopelessness of a struggle between any woman 
and a tall, powerful man like the villain before her. Only 
by the exercise of strength far beyond her means could she 
free herself by physical force. Should she scream ? In- 
tuitively she knew that his cunning had brought her to a 
spot where no scream, within the capabilities even of 
Mdlle. Francesca, could attract a passer’s notice. The 
craft this villain had displayed appalled her. What would 
the end be ? Till she knew his true intentions, let her be 
self-possessed and struggle against fear. 

All these thoughts, observations, and resolves came to 
Frances in a second — before the rascal broke silence. 

“Mrs. Bourchier,” he said, “I must apologize for my be- 
havior, which I will explain by and by. Meanwhile, will 
you allow me to light the candles behind you ? ” 

He spoke respectfully, so much so, that a nameless 
dread which was dimly forming in her thoughts was some- 
what modified. At any cost she must have light. She 
said nothing, but moving from her station took the side of 
the room Manders had quitted, and tried, as a despairing 
cliance, to open the door. 

“ I tested that lock pretty well yesterday,” he said, with- 
out turning round ; “so don’t waste your strength on it.” 

He lighted the two candles on the mantlepiece, then un- 
locking a cupboard in a piece of furniture, took out sev- 
eral more. Frances was glad to see the action. Anything 
was better than to be left'in darkness with tliis ruffian. 


252 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


Witii the candles lie produced a box of cigars, and, light- 
ing one, drew a chair to a table and sat down. 

‘'Take a chair,” he said; “ I want to have a talk with 
you.” 

She looked at him with scorn too great for words. He 
laughed. 

“ Of course you are mad with me. I have brought you 
down Ijere, and here you stay as long as I choose. But 
you need not be friglitened.” 

“ I am not frightened. Tell me what your villany 
means ?” 

“ ni tell you what I want presently. But sit down ; 
keep the table between us, if you like.” 

She sat down opposite iiim. For all the good it would 
do her, it was as well to sit as to stand. Her one idea was 
to show him she was not afraid. 

“ I must keep you here a little w'hile, for I have a great 
deal to say. First of all, I must tell you there is no house 
within a quarter of a mile of this. It is known to be 
empty, so no one will call. The window, as you see, is 
padded ; so, if I let you hammer at it, I don’t think you 
can attract any notice. Any way, you are my prisoner for 
the next few days, if I wish to keep you.” 

“ My husband will find out wliere I am, and soon free 
me,” said Frances. 

Manders blew out a wreath of smoke. 

“That dear Allan, my brother-in-law,” he said, “shall I 
tell you what he will do and where he Avill be to- 
morrow?” 

“ He will be here to reckon with you, if you dare to de- 
tain me.” 

“ I don’t think he will. They will get alarmed at your 
absence, and will send for Allan. He will come back, and 
Josephine, my darling wife, will tell him liow I called, how 
you found I was a dear old friend. Josephine is very sus- 
picious. She will send Allan to the Langharn. He will 
find that I have left to-day with a friend for Nice — left 
Charing Cross. Then Allan will rage and fume, and will 
take the first train to follow me and you. Fie will go hunt- 
ing about the Continent, and perhaps in a fortnight’s time 
come back to England.” 

Her heart sank. She quite believed he had taken steps 
to insure this result. Josephine’s words and manner came 
back to her. She saw what they meant. 

“Then,” continued Manders, when he returns, he will 


A CA/^DIATAL SIiV, 


253 


perhaps find that you have been spending a few days with 
your old friend here.” 

“ He will take a full amount of revenge,” said Frances. 

“ He will try to. I shan’t blame him. You see I rented 
tills pretty quiet place for the benefit of a person who was 
much kinder to me than Josephine. I am afraid the truth 

is well known in B . I dare say Allan will want to 

shoot me, but you’ll find it hard work to make matters 
clear to him — or to any one else, 1 expect.” 

Frances grew crimson as she grasped the full extent of 
his villany. She rose from her chair. 

“And you!” she cried, in scathing accents, “you to 
whom my father and I showed nothing but kindness, to 
plot and intrigue to ruin me in my husband’s eyes. If you 
have any feeling of manhood left, open the doors and let 
me go.” 

“ You may go free any moment you like after you have 
heard what I have to say, and promised me something. I 
only want to show you exactly how you stand. Your fate 
is in your own hands. Will you listen ? ” 

“ Speak on and let me know the worst a man is capable 
of.” 

“ Oh, I’m capable of anything. But sit down again ; it 
seems more comfortable.” 

“ I prefer standing.” 

“ All right ; stand as long as you like. I am in no hurry, 
but I shan’t speak until you sit down.” 

The question was not worth disputing. She resumed 
her seat. 

“ That’s better,” said Manders, smoking with an air of en- 
joyment. “ Now listen, and you’ll see what I want you to 
do. It’s very little, but until you promise to do it we must 
continue to be fellow-lodgers.” 

“ I suppose you want me to assist you in carrying out 
your imposture ? ” 

“Something of the kind. It suited me to believe and 
state that my name was Digby Bourchier. Every one has 
believed that for the last three years. It was under that 
name that I won Josephine’s affections. I told her I was 
the heir to Redhills and could turn them all out at any 
moment. Smart, wasn’t it?” 

Frances withheld her approbation — his cynical candor 
was revolting. 

•Well, as you know all about me, and, I suppose, are 
burning to tell Allan and all of them that I am not a Bour- 


254 


A CARDINAL SIxV. 


chier, but the son of poor but honest parents named Man- 
ders, I liave been obliged to keep out of your way as long 
as possible. Looking after Josephine, I tumbled against 
you. That was a mistake on my part.” 

“Tnen,” said Frances, slowly, “all the tale you told me 
ftbout the penitent criminal — tlietale which lured me down 
here — was false.” 

“That was smart, wasn’t it? Takes a Yankee to devise 
sucli a plan as that.” 

“ Go on,” said Frances. 

“ I guess there isn’t much more to say. It suits me to 
keep the whole thing dark for another month — after that 
I don’t care. You can tell everybody that Digby Bour- 
chier is George Manders. You swear that until this day 
month you keep silence, and here are the keys for you, 
you can walk out at once, catch the train, and be in town 
b}" five o’clock.” 

“What is the alternative ?” asked Frances, disdainfully. 

Manders laughed, and flipped his cigar ash into the un- 
tidy grate behind him. 

“ There is none,” he said. “ It’s only a matter of time 
— you’ll have to promise before you leave this place ; so 
you’d better be a sensible girl and make up your mind to 
do so at once — not send poor Allan right across France 
after you.” 

“ I will never promise — never. If you hav'e taken these 
pains to insure my silence, your end must be utterly evil. 
You are a liar, an impostor, and, for all I know, a mur- 
derer. Let me go ! ” 

“ Better consider the matter a bit,” said Manders, tilting 
back his chair and putting his hands in his pockets. 
There’s no harm done yet ; you can be home in a couple 
of hours. By and by it will be too late to avoid gossip 
and scandal.” 

She made no reply, but, turning her head away, looked 
carefully round the room— there was no means of escape. 
She rose and tried the folding-doors on her rigiit hand. 
These were locked. Manders watched every action, but 
for a while said nothing. 

“Well,” he asked, at length, “ have you considered ?” 

She had considered, and felt convinced that he was weav- 
ing some diabolical plot — something that must needs be 
evil to her husband’s people. By this time she rightly 
believed that he was capable of any villainy. How could 
she keep silent for the time specified, and know that he 


A CAJW/.VAL ShV. 


was working unchecked to accomplish the object he had 
in view. This might be Allan’s ruin, Josepliine’s ruin, 
Mr. Bourchier’s ruin, in fact, every one’s ruin. No, she 
would never consent ; nothing should wring such a prom- 
ise from her. Besides, she felt if it was to be a contest of 
will between herself and Manders, she was quite his match ; 
therefore, when he repeated his question, she set her lips 
firmly and looked him full in the face. 

“I will never promise,” she said. “I will stay here 
until I am released ; but I will promise nothing.” 

Manders muttered an oath. 

“You are a foolish, obstinate woman,” he said. “ Now 
we shall see which can tire the other out. Until you swear 
to keep silence for a month, you stay here my prisoner. 
You’ll have to give in sooner or later.” 

She said nothing, but sat still, thinking what to do. She 
looked at her watch, and found the hour was nearly three. 
In that room it might have been any time. There was not 
a ray of daylight to show it was not midnight. She 
thought of the distance from the road to the house, and 
wondered if it were not possible to attract the attention of 
some passer by a prolonged scream. To be entrapped and 
imprisoned this way seemed absurd. A hundred yards or 
so from the high road, and within a few miles from London. 
Surely her voice would reach as far as the road, and seme 
one would come to her assistance. She hated the idea of 
resorting to the feminine extremity — screaming — but what 
could she do ? She could not overpower her jailer ; no 
one was likely to come by chance or on business to that 
deserted cottage ; she had seen Manders lock the gate 
securely. Her only hope of escape was to make her voice 
heard. She must try, much as she disliked screaming in 
cold blood. If no one came to her aid her only chance 
would be to tire her captor out, to pit her power of resist- 
ing fatigue and watching against his. No, she would 
promise nothing, unless her life was in absolute danger — 
nothing. 

Having fallen such an easy victim to his craft, she quite 
believed that he had arranged things so that Allan would 
be lured away on a false scent. Her heart grew sick with 
the thought ; her cheeks flushed at the idea of her hus- 
band pursuing her and Manders on the Continent. How 
bitterly she regretted the desire for revenge which had 
been played on by this villain, and so led her into such 
straits. She must make some one hear! 


256 


A CAI^DINAL SJiV. 


So she stood up, opened her shoulders, drew a long 
breath, and screamed a scream, which, coming witiamt 
v/arning, made Manders jump in his chair. He had evi- 
dently counted upon this proceeding, as it appeared to 
trouble him little. He lit a fresh cigar and laughed, while 
his prisoner sent scream after scream, hoping one miglit 
succeed in travelling the distance. At last, utterly ex- 
hausted, she sank on her chair, waiting to see if her ef 
forts had attracted any attention. 

“ It’s not a bit of good,” said Manders. “You’ll only 
1 uin your voice and tire yourself out. I’ll bet you don’t 
make anvone hear if you scream for a month.” 

From the composure with which he regarded her efforts 
she felt he was speaking the truth in this respect. The 
way he had deadened the windoAVS w’as with a view of 
guarding against her cries being heard. 

She sat dowm and for three hours neither spoke nor 
moved. It seemed like a horrible dream. It was now past 
six o’clock. She knew that Josephine and Mrs. Melville 
would be wondering at her absence — she dreaded lest they 
should even then telegraph for her husband. The idea 
that for one moment Allan should be led to suspect her of 
wrong was maddening. Had a loaded pistol been in her 
hand she would have shot that wretch opposite to her with- 
out compunction. Yet she grew more and more resolved 
to lend herself in no way to liis schemes. 

He sat all the while in the same chair, smoking continu- 
ally. The air grew heavy and foul with the fumes of his 
strong cigars. The room w’as small and only ventilated 
by the chimney and the crevices of the doors. Part of the 
time lie read, or pretended to read, a dog-eared novel, sev- 
eral of w’hich were scattered about ; but he kept the while 
a close watch on his captive. At half-past six he rose. 

“ Still determined ?” he asked. 

Frances did not trouble to reply. 

“Then I must prepare for the siege,” he said, opening 
tlie cupboard behind him and taking out some provisions, 
a bottle of brandy and soda water. He made a hearty 
meal and then replaced everything except the brandy and 
soda water. “ Sorry I must be ungallant enough to re- 
frain from asking you to share my meal,” he said, “but if 
the besiegers supplied the besieged with provisions the 
fortress would never fall.” 

Till then the thought of hunger and thirst had not oc- 
curred to her. He intended, she saw, to starve her into 


A CARDINAL SIN 


257 


submission. However, she was not hungry or thirsty yet ; 
so she put off considering the evil moment. 

Presently Manders spoke again. 

I don’t mind doing what I can to make you comforta- 
ble, as long as I don’t injure myself. You ain’t very cheer- 
ful company, so if you like to go into the next room, I’ve 
no objection.” 

He opened the folding-doors, then coming back put a 
lighted candle on the table near her. 

“ You can go in there,” he said, “if you like, and stay 
there till you are tired ; but you must leave the door open 
so that I can see what you’re about, if I want to. If you 
try to break down things and get to the windows I shall 
come in and stop with you, or make you come back here.” 

Anytliing was better than his company. She took the 
candle and passed into the adjoining room. 

It was furnished in the half-bedroom, half-sitting-room 
style. That same precaution had been taken with respect 
to the window, and a chest of drawers was placed in front of 
the door, which was no doubt locked. She could not get 
at it without removing the piece of furniture and alarm- 
ing Mander.s. She could sit in semi-privacy behind the 
half-open folding-door, but she knew that if she ap- 
proached the window he must see her. Screaming in 
this room she felt would be less likely to aid her than in 
the other. 

Still she was alone — away from those hateful eyes. She 
could throw herself on a chair and collect her thoughts. 
She need not check the tears which, in spite of her bold 
bearing, were springing to her eyes. She could pray and 
hope that some chance, or some mistake on Manders’s part, 
might reveal her whereabouts to the friends who, she was 
certain, would be seeking her high and low to-morrow. 
She felt glad she had not veiled herself as she walked 
through the little village. Many persons must have seen 
her, and would be able to put inquirers on the right 
track. She would be traced to Charing Cross, where 
some one may have noticed her. Yes, she would hold out 
for a long while yet. 

There was a washsland in the room. She ventured to 
pour out a little water and bathe her face, not without fear 
that her jailer would intrude when he heard her move- 
ments. But he did not ; and, feeling refreshed, she sat 
down to pass the long and sleepless hours as best she 
could. 


*7 


258 


A CARDnVAL SJJV. 


One by one they passed. She drew out her watch and 
wound it up ; it would be terrible not to have the means of 
knowing how the time went. It was now night ; she had 
touched nothing since breakfast-time — nearly twelve hours 
ago. She drank a little of the brackish water left in the 
ewer and assuaged her burning thirst. Manders, she 
knew, was still smoking, and, she supposed, drinking; as 
from time to time she heard the chink of glass and the 
gurgling of fluid. Would lie eventually drink himself to 
sleep ? This was the only chance of escape she could 
think of, unless the rescue came from without. 

Her candle had now burned down into the socket. She 
felt she dare not stay there in darkness; she feared she 
might drop off to sleep if the light were withdrawn. She 
must have another candle ; must summon up her courage 
to go to him and demand it. Moreover, it was better to 
show him she was not afraid. So she stepped boldly into 
the front room. 

“ Going to give in ?” he asked, as she entered. 

“ Give me another candle,” she said, peremptorily. 

“ Help yourself,” he said, throwing several on the table ; 
‘‘there’s lots liere — enough for a week, I calculate.” 

She took a couple, and while so doing glanced at him. 
No, he was not drunk yet. But there was a look in his 
dark eyes which sent a thrill of fear through her — a look 
she had not seen there yet — a look that made her long for 
a weapon. She felt, as she retreated to her own domain, 
that those eyes were following her. AVhat would happen 
if sleep or fatigue overpowered her ? Brave as she was 
’she shuddered at the thought. 

Should she yield and promise ? Never, till in the last 
extremity ! Should she promise, and, considering how 
that promise was extorted, break it the moment she was 
free ? No, she could not do that. A promise or an oath, 
no matter how given, must be sacred to Frances Bourchier. 
Oh, if Allan were here ; her strong, brave husband ! She 
pictured his wrath — pictured him shaking Manders like a 
rat — and this mental picture gave her great comfort. The 
reverse of it, unfortunately, was Allan falling, like herself, 
into a trap, and rushing off to the Continent in search of 
her. The hours wore on until she found it was midnight. 

She was growing very hungry, and the fear began to 
form in her mind that simple starvation would compel her 
at last to yield. But not yet ; she could hold out many 
hours yet. She took another draught of the bad water, 


A CARDIiVAL SI AT. 


259 


and, as she turned round afterward, saw Manders standing 
inside the door with wdcked eyes gleaming at her. 

She faced liim boldly, but her heart sunk. 

“ I don’t see why I should sit all alone,” he said, with a 
thick utterance. “ You come in and cheer me up.” 

“ 1 choose to stay here,” she answered. 

Then I’ll come in here too ; hanged if I don’t. A 
f How doesn’t often get such a lovely girl as you to talk to. 
i’ll come in.’" 

Without a word she passed him, and took her old seat in 
the front room. She must not show the fear she felt. Oh, 
if Allan were here ! 

Manders followed her, and, obedient to a motion of her 
hand, seated himself in the same chair he had occupied so 
long. Then he poured out more brandy, and looked across 
at her. 

“Now, let’s be jolly and comfortable,” he said. “I can’t 
bear to keep away from such a beauty as you are, Frances. 
Everybody hasn’t got the finest woman in the world stay- 
ing of her own free will with him.” 

He seemed about to rise. Frances looked at him — such 
a look, speaking such volumes that he quailed before her 
eyes and sunk back into his chair. For the time she had 
conquered. But by and by ! Manders muttered some- 
thing, and took a long pull at his glass, which almost emp- 
tied it. He then poured out more spirit. 

She saw the action, and trembled. He still had his wits 
about him, but after a few more glasses he might be madly 
intoxicated — too wild to listen to or be satisfied by any 
promise, even if she could bring herself to make it. What 
would become of her, shut up with a ruffian drunk enough 
to commit any crime, sober enough to execute it ? The 
bottle which held the brandy "was a very large one — orig- 
inally it might have contained two quarts. He poured as 
much as seemed good to him intohisglass, then replacing the 
bottle by his side, turned for water to qualify the liquor. In 
a second her resolve was made ; with a sweep of her long 
arm she sent bottle and glass from the table — dashed them 
off with such vigor that both broke into fragments against 
the wainscoting. It was a rash act, and she trembled for 
the consequences. But anything was better than seeing 
the man grow more and more dangerous. At one time she 
had looked forward to his complete intoxication as a means 
of her release, but she had not taken the intermediate stage 
into account. 


26 o 


A CARDI.VAL S/.V. 


Manders sprang to his feet, and, dropping the mask alto- 
gether, hurled a volley of curses at her. Then he picked 
up the bottom of the bottle, hoping to find something 
left there ; but the work of destruction had been thoroughly 
done. The air was thick and oppressive with the exhala- 
tions rising from the spilled spirit, and Frances prayed she 
might not faint. 

For a moment the ruffian seemed inclined to attack her. 
He "lared and swore at her. She feared the worst. Then 
he went back to his chair, and, resuming his cigar, smoked 
sullenly for about half an hour. 

“ You think you have been devilish clever,” he said, 
looking across at her ; “ but it’s the best thing you could 
liave done for me. I can’t get screwed now. I guess, 
about this time to-morrow you’ll feel like giving in. You’ll 
be begging on your knees for something to eat and drink. 
You’ll have to pay a high price, I can tell you.” 

“ I shall be free long before to-morrow evening. I left 
word where I was going.” 

Manders started and looked at her intently, then turned 
away with a laugh, 

“ That’s a lie — you’d have told me so before if you had. 
You’re gone to Nice with me, and dear Allan will be off 
after us to-morrow evening.” 

Hour after hour of that long night crept by. The two, 
tlie captor and the captive, sat silent but wakeful, eying 
each other. Manders spoke several times, but Frances de- 
clined to open her lips again. He went to his cupboard 
once or twice and ate some of his provisions, chuckling as 
he did so. Frances once or twice crept into the back room 
and drank the brackish water. She dreaded that he would 
deprive her of even that poor resource. But he did not — 
there may be a depth of brutality to which no man is able 
to sink. 

Hour after hour passed by. It was morning — nine, ten, 
eleven, and still the watchers sat. Frances for a while be- 
gan to grow dreamy; yes, she must be dreaming. That 
reeking room, the close atmosphere, the candles one after 
another burning down — could it be possible that outside 
that sealed window was broad, bright sunlight — that birds 
were singing and flowers open in the hedges ? Then she 
almost feared she was losing her senses. By a great effort 
she rose and paced to and fro. She must keep awake — 
she must struggle on till the night — then exhausted nature, 
she knew, would have her own way, and she must yield. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


26t 


To think it was broad daylight outside ! People passing 
within a few hundred yards ; yet she might as well be in 
the deepest cell of the Inquisition. She must make them 
hear — she would try again. 

She screamed wildly, and knew her scream to-day was but 
a pitiful echo of that of yesterday. She soon desisted. If 
no one heard her before, it was absurd to suppose they 
would hear now. Forgetting her companion, she fell back 
on her chair and covered her eyes with her hands. 

Manders leaned across. 

“ Will you give in and promise ?” he asked. 

His voice was hoarse and changed, but the sound of it 
awoke Frances to a recollection of where she was. She 
raised lier head. 

“ Never ! ” she said. 

He ground his teeth and looked at his watch — it was 
twelve o’clock. 

“I’m getting tired of this,” he said; “you’re in better 
training than I am. I’ve had as much as I can stand of it. 
I thought I could last you out, but now I don’t think I 
can. I’m just good for a few hours longer; then if you 
won’t swear to keep your mouth shut. I’ll shut it once and 
for all. If I’ve got to use this it’s your own fault.” 

He opened his coat as he spoke and showed her the 
butt of wliat her American experience told her was a re- 
volver. 


CFIAPTER XXII. 

FOLLOWING A TRAIL. 

When Allan Bourchier heard the astounding assertion 
made by Josephine, his first thought was that she had 
taken leave of her senses. She must surely be mad to 
couple his wife’s name with that of her rascally husband. 
However, he soon saw that she was as much in her right 
mind and as responsible for her statements as he himself 
was, so his suspicions as to lier sanity changed into good 
honest anger. Fie started to his feet, and released him- 
self from her embrace. 

“ What nonsense are you talking, Josephine ? ” he asked, 
sternly. 

“None at all. I wish it was nonsense. Let me tell you 
all that has happened.” 


262 


A CAA’D/A'AL SIN. 


Josephine was weeping so piteously that Allan knew she 
was miserable at having to impart her intelligence. 

“Speak on,” he said ; “but be careful what yon say. 
There are some things a man cannot forgive liis sister, even. 
Now, collect yourself, and try to speak sensibly.” 

Josephine dried her eyes. 

“ I told you that Digby said he knew Frances.” 

“Yes; I asked Frances — she had never seen him. It 
was one of the man’s lies.” 

“ But she did know him. On Thursday afternoon he 
called here, and was shown into the drawing-room, where 
Frances and I were. Oh, Allan ! I thought lie had come 
for me ; but it was to see Frances he came. As soon as 
he entered the room she sprung up, and cried, ‘At last — 
after so many years.’ She almost threw herself into his 
arms.” 

“ Almost did what ? ” asked Allan, so fiercely that Jo- 
sephine regretted the exaggeration she had been guilty of. 

“ She ran forward to shake hands with him. She seemed 
overjoyed to see him.” 

“Well, what else?” 

“ I didn’t see anything else. I was so frightened at his 
having found me out that I left the room. Neither of 
them seemed to notice whether I went or stayed. Oh, 
Allan ! I am so sorry to have to tell )’Ou this.” 

“ Go on,” said Allan, shortly. 

“Then by-and-by Frances came out and said she was at 
home to no one. They sat together in the drawing-room 
for more than an hour. Then Digby went.” 

Allan felt the matter was getting beyond his compre- 
hension. 

“He must have been known under another name to 
Frances,” he said. “I can see nothing as yet to justify you 
in making such a wild assertion.” 

“ The worst has to come ; you have not heard all.” 

“Frances knew he was your husband, of course?” 

“ She seemed greatly astonished when I told her so after 
he had gone. Then she begged me to say nothing about 
his visit for a few days. She said she would rather you did 
not know of it.” 

Allan was growing frightened. 

“You must be mistaken, Josephine ; or else Frances had 
good reasons for silence. Has he been here since ?” 

“No; but yesterday a letter came while we were at 
breakfast. I saw the writing — it was Digby’s.’* 


A CARDl.VAL S/.V. 


263 


Go on,” said Allan, hoarsely. 

“ Someone was waiting for an answer. Frances seemed 
to consider for a long time ; then she wrote two or three 
words, and sent them by the messenger. Then she asked 
for a time-table, ordered the brougham, and drove to Char- 
ing Cross. Allan ! don’t be angry with me. What could 
1 think ? ” 

His face was full of fierce wrath. He could not believe 
evil of Frances ; but, in the face of Josephine’s tale, could 
not doubt that she had left her house owing to the letter 
sent by Digby. He must do something to set liis mind at 
rest. 

“ Wliere is that dog of a husband of yours staying ? ” he 
asked. “At the Langham, isn’t it ?” 

“ He was there. I think he has been tliere lately.” 

Allan w’as out of the room before she had finished her 
sentence. Her first thought was to recall him, and tell him 
where she supposed his wife had gone to. But it miglit 
be better to let Allan inquire first if Digby was at the 
Langham. She ran to the window, saw him jump into a 
cab, and drive off in the direction of the hotel. 

In twent}’’ minutes he returned, and his appearance as 
he entered made his sister’s heart ache — she scarcely knew 
her brother. His face was pale, and his blue eyes gleamed 
with suppressed rage. There was an air of relentless 
purpose about him which boded ill for Digby Bourchier, 
Josephine thought he looked at least ten years older. H j 
strode into the room and shut the door. 

It is true — too true,” he said. 

Josephine’s tears sprung to her eyes. 

“ Oh, Allan ! what will you do ? ” 

“ Do ! ” — he spoke with a fierceness which startled her — • 
“ there is but one thing for me to do. All men don't do 
it, but I shall.” 

She knew what he meant. 

“ Run up-stairs and put a few things in a bag for me,’" 
he said, speaking very calmly, but in a manner utterly un- 
like him. “ I must have something to eat and drink before 
I go.” 

“ Where are you going ? ” 

“ Where am I going ? Why, to find my wife and your 
husband, Josephine.” 

“ But where ? ” 

“To Nice first; afterward, God knows where?” 

“ Why should you go to Nice to look for them ? ” 


264 


A CAI^D/NAL SIN’. 


“ Because Mr. Digby Bourchier let people at the hotel 
know that he and a friend were going together to Nice. 
He started from Charing Cross yesterday morning. He 
even left instructions for his letters to be sent to Nice. 
So to Nice I am going. When I come back I expect you 
will be a widow, Josephine. But you won’t blame me for 
that.” 

He spoke without any inflated threats — simply as one 
who has made up his mind to do a perfectly natural thing 
— kill the man who had taken his wife away. 

‘‘Allan,” said Josephine, “listen a moment to me.” 

“ I can’t stop ; go and do as I tell you.” 

“You, a clever man,” said Josephine, “ought to know 
that if my husband has gone away, as you fear, the last ad- 
dress he would leave would be the right one.” 

Allan started. What if he were to go on the Continent 
on a fool’s errand, and his absence give this villain time to 
get off scot free ? 

“No,” said Josephine, “he has never left England. 
Both he and Frances are here, almost close at hand.” 

“ Why do you think so ? Tell me, before I go mad.” 

She fetched the time-table which Frances had consulted 
on the morning she left. She pointed out the stain on the 
page, and told Allan how it came to be there. She pointed 
to the very train by which Frances had travelled. 

“ B ! ” he said, incredulously. “ Why should they 

have gone to B ? ” 

Josephine hung her head. Her tears were streaming 
down her cheeks. It seemed so dreadful to be the one to 
say such shameful things of her brother’s wife — to hint at 
what she suspected. But it must be done. 

“ Allan,” she said, “ may Heaven forgive me if I am 
judging wrong. Do you remember those two letters I 
gave you ? ” 

“Well, what of them ? ” Allan spoke impatiently. 

“They were from a woman — a woman, a friend of my 

husband’s. They were dated from B . Digby has 

rented a house there for some time.” 

Allan saw at once her meaning. She had put it as deli- 
cately as possible ; but it thrilled every fibre of his frame. 
He sprung to his feet. 

“ The name of the house? Tell me ! ” he cried. 

“It is called ‘The Shrubbery.’ I know nothing else 
about it.” 

He ran his eyes down the table of trains. There was 


A CAKVI.VAL S//V. 


265 


time to catch the next. He tossed off a glass of wine, and 
in a minute had re-entered the cab which was waiting for 
him, and was speeding away to Charing Cross. 

As he went down to B he had leisure to think over 

wliat had occurred. He laughed a bitter laugh as he real- 
ized the change a few short hours had made in his life. 
Josephine’s circumstantial evidence seemed without a flaw. 
Everything showed that her conjecture was the right one 
— tliat Frances had disappeared with Digby Bourchier. 
The denial of any acquaintance with him would not in 
itself have much troubled Allan, but, taken in connection 
with subsequent events, it exercised him greatly. The 
truth is, tliat Allan had a vein of jealousy in his compo- 
sition ; it had never been trenched upon until now. As it 
was, when he thought of the instantaneous recognition 
and warm welcome described by Josephine as given by 
his wife to Digby Bourchier, the prolonged interview after- 
ward, the letter in his handwriting, the answer sent, the 
immediate departure by train, he began to wonder whether 
it could be possible that the woman who he thought loved 
him had left him at the call of another. Worse — far 
worse than anything, was the wish she had expressed to 
Josephine that nothing might be said about her visitor for 
a few days. Could it be that he was to be added to the 
many who have been utterly deceived and wrecked by 
women on whose loyalty they would have staked their sal- 
vation ? If so, he would at least take a man’s revenge on 
the villain who had brought shame on him — a good, old- 
fashioned, thorough revenge. Allan Bourchier set his 
teeth. He was in that frame of mind in which a man 
does dark and terrible deeds. Perhaps in all the Bour- 
chiers there was a drop of tiger’s blood which came to the 
surface when occasion called for it. 

Yet, again and again his wife’s face rose before him, as 
he had last, as he had always seen it — pure, true, and 
beautiful. Again and again he thought of her as he had 
always found her— without one thought of evil. No, he 
swore to himself it could not be true — it should not be 
true. Men have always been deceived by women again 
and again, but not by a woman like Frances. She had 
gone away for some good reason ; even if she had gone 
with Digby Bourchier, it was still for some good reason. 
She would explain everything when they met. 

Then he remembered what in his agitation he had for- 
gotten until now. To-night she was to sing in opera. She 


266 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


who had never yet disappointed the public, and often 
vowed she never would do so. Yet she was away. For 
the once her devotion to the stage consoled him. It was 
more tlian the evil Josephine had been compelled to hint 
at that kept his wife away. Yet this comfort opened up a 
new source of dread.- Could any bodily harm have be- 
fallen her ? Could she be — his blood ran cold — dead ! 
Even Mrs. Melville’s wild suggestion did not seem so im- 
probable to him. 

How slowly the train went ! Should they never get to 

B ? Yet he had not much hope, or rather fear, of 

finding her there. The new departure taken by his 
thoughts seemed to forbid it. Why should she have gone 

to B with his sister’s husband ? Oh, what a blight 

that man had cast on the whole family! He ground his 
teeth again, and his former frame of mind returned. 

B at last ! Now, what was he to do ? He must find 

his way to the village and inquire the whereabouts of 
“The Shrubbery.” He walked along the same road Fran- 
ces walked the day before, and came to the sleepy little 
village. There he entered a saddler’s shop and began his 
inquiries. 

“ Can you tell me if there is a place near here called 
*• The Shrubbery ? ’ ” 

“ Yes, sir ; about half a mile out of the town. Keep 
straight along the road, and you’ll pass it on the left hand.” 

Allan noticed the tradesman eyed him curiously as he 
replied to his inquiry. 

“ Who lives there ? ” he asked. 

The saddler laughed. “ If you don’t know. I’m sure I 
don’t,” he said, with a meaning smile. Allan frowned. 

“ If I knew I should not ask you. Kindly tell me.” 

The little saddler saw he had been taking a liberty, and 
hastened to atone for it. 

“ We none of us exactly know who lives there,” he said. 
“ Some one who called herself Mrs. Montague lived there 
a few weeks ago, but she’s gone, and the place has been 
shut up since.” 

“ Is it shut up now ? ” 

“ That I can’t say, sir. I saw Mr. Montague pass through 
the village yesterday morning, and I haven’t seen him pass 
back again ; so he may be there.” 

“Who is Mr. Montague?” 

“ We none of us know exactly who Mr. Montague is,” 
said the saddler. 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


267 


“ Describe him to me." 

The saddler did so, and Allan knew that Mr. Montague 
was Digby Bourchier. The tradesman’s manner told him 
precisely in what light “The Shrubbery" and its late tenant 

were looked upon by the B folk ; and Allan’s blood 

boiled as he remembered he was seeking his wife there. 
It could not be — it must be some horrible mistake. 

“Do you think this Mr. Montague is there now?” he 
asked. 

“ Well — yes, I think so,’’ said the saddler, with a cun- 
ning smile on his face. “Oli, yes, I think so, certainly." 

“ Why?” asked Allan, setting his teeth. 

“Well, you see, an liour after Mr. Montague went by 
yesterday, I was looking out at the door, and I saw a young 
woman pass — such a pretty creature she was, too ! ’’ 

The saddler shook his head in a way which spoke vol- 
umes. 

“ What of that ?" asked Allan, feeling as he spoke his 
whole body tingling. 

“She was a pretty creature ! Well, she hasn’t passed 
back again, any more than Mr. Montague — that’s all." 

All ! It was more than enough. His worst fears were 
confirmed. He could not doubt but the young woman 
who liad excited his informant’s admiration and pity was 
his own wife. She had gone yesterday to “ The Shrub- 
bery." She had stayed there ever since. She was there 
now — and her companion was this Montague — this Digby 
Bourchier under a false name. It was all over ! All but 
vengeance. He would take a man’s vengeance. Life 
was nothing to him now. He could kill this villain, and 
then — never mind “and then:’’ nothing mattered after- 
ward. 

He controlled his agitation. “ I want to see Mr. Mon- 
tague,” he said. “ How shall I know the house ? ’’ 

He drew out half a sovereign, which, the saddler being 
in a very humble way of trade, was thankfully accepted. 

“ You can’t miss it, sir ; it’s the only house after you 
get clear of the town on the left hand side. You can’t see 
it from the road, but you can see the palings round the 
garden." 

Allan left the shop and walked as fast as he could in 
the direction of “ The Shrubbery.” He would have run 
at his top speed, but he did not wish to attract the atten- 
tion of the villagers. He was soon at the fence which 
surrounded the garden of the cottage. He glanced up 


A CARDINAL S/iV. 


and down the road, and seeing no one, placed his hands 
on the top of the palings, drew himself up, and looked 
over. He was none the Aviser for so doing, as a thick 
hedge hid everything inside from his sight. He dropped 
back on the road, and walked on until he came to the 
gate through which Frances passed the day before. It 
was a strong rustic gate, through the crevices of tvhich he 
could peer and see a winding path, Avith shrubs on each 
side. The gate Avas locked, and he saAV no signs of a bell 
or other means of asking for admission ; not that he 
Avould have used them had they been there. Flis object 
Avas to enter the house unseen and unsuspected. There 
Avas no one in sight, so, placing his foot on one of the 
cross-bars of the rustic gate, in a moment lie Avas inside 
the fence. 

He Avalked rapidly along the Avinding path until it 
emerged from the shrubs and led up to the house door. 
Then he paused to reconnoitre, and, as he saAvthe cottage, 
a feeling of joy came over him. His fears Avere ground- 
less — the house AA’as absolutely deserted. The Avhole gar- 
den round it uncared for and full of Aveeds, the grass on 
the lawn imtrimmed, and every AvindoAV in the house with 
shutters up. It Avas plain that no living creature Avas 
about. He felt so relieved at the evidence of emptiness 
that he had time to Avonder Avho could have built so small 
a house on so large a plot of ground. It Avas only a one- 
story cottage — a small villa, containing at the most six 
rooms. He Avalked up to the front door, and noticed that 
there Avas no knocker, and that the bell-handle had been 
remoA^ed from its socket. The house, might haA^e been un- 
tenanted for months. HoAvever, to make sure, he Avent 
round to the back ; every AvindoAv there Avas shuttered and 
closed. He looked at the chimneys — not a sign of smoke 
came from either. He pushed open a little door, Avhich 
led into a small paved yard Avith offices around it. From 
this yard he Avas able to look through a window Avhich had 
no shutters up — the kitchen Avindow — and see' the tireless 
grate, the clock Avhicli Avas not going, and other evidence 
of non-occupation. Wherever Frances might be, she Avas 

not here. If she came to B to meet Digby, “ The 

Shrubbery” Avas not their destination. He must now 
retrace his steps, and— degrading task — inquire if others 
had seen the lady whose personal appearance so favorably 
impressed the village saddler. 

He did not even knock at the door. Beyond a doubt 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


269 


the hoiise was empty. Besides, he had no intention of 
knocking at doors if it could be avoided. So, little guess- 
ing he was within a few yards of the wife he sought, he re- 
turned to the path through the shrubs, intending to leave 
tiie precincts at once. 

He was now in a mood more suitable for noticing trivial 
things. He reached the spot where Digby asked Frances 
to wait while he gave notice of her coming, when a dark 
object on the side of the path caught his eye. Raising it, 
lie found it was a thick black veil, such a one as Josephine 
liad told him she noticed in his wife’s hand when she left 
the house. In her anxiety to obey her conductor’s com- 
mand, to come quickly lest the door should be closed 
against them, Frances had let it fall. She had either not 
noticed the loss, or had not ventured to delay in order to 
recover a thing of such trifling importance. 

Allan looked at the veil, and all hope that it was not his 

wife who had yesterday passed through B was at an 

end. He knew the veil well ; it was one he had bought 
by her instructions in America. He remembered choos- 
ing it — the thickest and most concealing that could be ob- 
tained. He remembered laughing at the way in which it 
completely hid Frances’s features. It was so dark and thick 
that it almost defeated its own ends of freeing the wearer 
from fear of recognition and observation, by attracting 
curiosity. He knew it too well ! 

She had been to that house. Was she there now ? 
Could it be possible that the closed shutters and general 
uninhabited appearance of the place were nothing but a 
part of a plan to evade pursuit? He hated himself for 
the suspicion, but determined he would see the inside of 
that cottage before he left. If it should be, as he believed, 
empty, he might at least find some other traces of his wife. 

How was he to get in ? If he knocked or kicked at the 
door it would be useless. If there were people inside they 
wished to make outsiders believe that the house was de- 
serted. Hence the closed shutters and fireless kitchen 
grate. He might knock all night to no purpose except 
that of giving the alarm. No, he would get in, if possible, 
unseen and unheard — and then ! Allan ground his teeth 
and strode back to the house. 

He went to work very deliberately. His wrath was at 
white heat. He could plan and calculate — and act when 
the time came. He saw at once that the front of the 
house was impregnable— four shuttered windows and a 


270 


A CAJWLVAL Sm. 


Stout door would defy his resources. He must gain ingress 
from the back. 

To the back he went once more, but before attempting 
to force his way in, walked to the end of the grounds and 
looked over the fence. Broad green meadows stretched 
away in the rear of “The Shrubbery.” Here and there, a 
long way off, he could see white farm-houses. A curious 
look— not a pleasant one- — stole over Allan’s face as he 
saw what an isolated place the cottage was. “If he is 
there,” he muttered, “ I shall have him all to myself. Wc 
need not be afraid of interruption.” Yet, he did not be- 
lieve there was anyone in the house. 

But another thought struck him. Digby Boiirchier was 
out — he could not bring himSelf to say they were out. It 
was fine enough to tempt everyone out. No one could 
stay in a hermetically-sealed abode. He would be back 
by and by in the gray of the evening, and upon entering his 
house would find an unexpected visitor waiting for him. 
This supposition was probably correct. Allan felt glad to 
think he would meet him in the gray of the evening, not 
by broad daylight like it was now — for it was scarcely six 
o’clock, and the sun had some way yet to sink. 

Now to get into the house. He began to wish for the 
assistance of an experienced housebreaker. He had little 
doubt but he could find a way of entering through that 
kitchen window ; but could he do it noiselessly ? If he 
broke a pane of glass he would alarm the inmates if there 
were any. His object was to guard against this. He went 
once more into the back-yard, and closed the little door 
bcliind liim. He was free froni all chance of observation 
.and interruption. Then he looked at the window, and 
tried to think how a housebreaker would set to work. 

He discovered an empty wine-case, which he placed un- 
der the window-ledge. Mounting this case, he found his 
head well above the middle of the window. He made no 
attempt to raise the sash, as through the centre pane he 
could see that the hasp was shut. If that centre pane 
were out of the way he could put his hand in and undo 
the fastening. Yes, he could get in easily enough. Let 
him thrust his gloved hand through the glass and the thing 
was done. ^ 

But not without noise. There would be a crash of 
broken glass, which would give the alarm. He must find 
a better way than that one. 

What made him the more anxious to proceed quietl)^ 


A CARD/.VAL S/M 


^7 


was the fact of this one window being so slightly guarded. 
Every other window barred and bolted — this one, the very 
one a housebreaker would choose, left at his mercy. It 
made liim think that after all someone was inside, or some- 
one would return very soon. The truth, although Allan 
knew it not, was that (jeorge Manders had no fear of an 
assault from the outside. His closed windows were only 
closed to keep in the prisoner he had caught, and to make 
the house appear untenanted. As no one could see the 
kitchen window without entering the yard, he had not 
troubled about it, or had forgotten it. 

Allan took off his glove, and drew a diamond ring from 
his finger. “ Her gift on our wedding-day," he said to 
himself. He could cut the glass with that, but still the 
pane must fall inside. Then a brilliant inspiration seized 
him. 

Out came his knife, and with it he ripped up the side of 
his thick dog-skin glove ; then from it he cut as large a 
piece of leather as possible; This he threw into a half- 
filled water-butt standing near him, and for a minute or 
two let it soak. He searched in his pockets and found a 
piece of string, the end of which he fastened to the centre 
of the sodden leather. Every schoolboy knows the toy, 
and knows how heavy a stone it will raise if properly ap- 
plied. Allan spread it out over the pane of glass, pressed 
all air from under it, saw that it adhered firmly, then, hold- 
ing thb string in his left hand, went to work with the 
diamond. 

It is not easy for an unskilled hand to cut glass with a 
diamond ring, but, after a few attempts, one of the edge? 
of a facet caught properly, and Allan contrived to make a 
long scratch, enclosing an irregular oval round the piece of 
leather. Replacing his ring on his finger, he struck the 
glass srhartly ; the piece fell in at once, and to his delight 
remained dangling by the string, which he now held very 
short ill his left hand. It was true it jarred a little against 
the pane below, but only for a second, and the noise it 
made was not great. He pulled it up, and drew it through 
the aperture ; then swiftly, but noiselessly, put back the 
catch of the window. The road was clear. 

The sash went up easily ; he stepped over the window- 
sill, and stood in the little dirty kitchen. He was without 
weapon of any kind ; but he wanted none. He was a tall, 
powerful man, and was confident that as soon as his enemy 
was in his grip weapons might be dispensed with. He 


272 


A CARDIJVAL Sm. 


was lightly clad, with nothing to interfere with the free 
play of his muscular arms. 

Yet he paused for a second. Could he, this man who 
liad stolen into another’s house, who was ready and eager 
to proceed to any extremity, could he be the Allan Bour- 
':hier who rose this morning with every joy in life his 
own ? He had lived through years since then. No, he 
was not the same man ; it may be he would never again be 
liis former self. However, that mattered little at the pres- 
ent moment. Now to work. 

He passed noiselessly over the flagged floor, and found 
the door was not locked ; but upon opening it he saw that 
another door, one of green baize, at right angles to the 
kitchen door, barred his passage. It was locked or bolted. 
For a moment he thought his’exertions had been useless, 
but upon examination he found the wood-work under the 
baize was a skeleton-frame, covered on each side with the 
thick woollen material. His penknife W’as called into 
requisition. A long slit was soon made, through which he 
put his hand and felt a bolt. Very quietly and cautiously 
he drew it back — it was the only fastening ; the door 
opened noiselessly, and he looked into a passage with 
doors on each side — a passage which he knew led to the 
front door. 

He closed the baize door behind him, intending to strike 
a match and pursue his investigations. He could hear 
nothing ; but his first impression was that the place reeked 
of cigar smoke. But it was clear there was no living 
creature in the house. 

The moment he closed the door he was in darkness — 
no, not absolute darkness. Allan staggered, and leaned 
for a moment against the wall, while a dreadful dryness 
seemed to rise in his throat. His heart throbbed, and his 
fingers involuntarily opened and closed again, for, from 
the right hand, stealing through the crevice between the 
door and the door-post, was a long, thin ray of light ; and 
as he strove to recover himself he. heard voices — the voice 
of a man and the voice of a woman — in the room from 
which the light came. 

It was all over ! He had only one thing left in life to be 
thankful for : he could take his revenge to the uttermost. 
Let him place his back against the wall opposite to that 
door, and one blow from his foot would send the flimsy 
obstacle flying, and Digby would be in his hands. 


A CARDINAL SIN 


273 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

JUST IN TIME. 

One by one the long hours went by in that extemporized 
prison where Manders held Frances his prisoner. Still 
the jailer and the captive struggled for victory, but the 
protracted struggle was telling on both. It was not till 
five o’clock in the afternoon that Frances was forced to 
tell herself that the duration of her power of resistance 
must soon be measured by minutes, not hours. Allan had 
not come to her aid, so she could only suppose he had 
failed in tracing her, or had followed the route laid down 
by Manders’ subtlety. If this craft had led her husband 
to Nice it would be days before he returned. Josephine 
must have summoned him long ago — yet when she counted 
the^liours she could hardly see how lie could yet by any 
chance have come to her rescue. There was another thing 
which made Frances long for freedom. To-night she was 
to sing. What would happen if she did not make her ap- 
pearance as announced ? She must be back in London in 
time to keep her engagement. But how was she to be 
freed ? If free, would she have strength to do her duty ? 
Oh, why did Allan not come! 

And hunger — merciless hunger was beginning to make 
its presence and power apparent. It was now thirty hours 
since she had eaten anything — since anything save that 
water had passed her lips. Yes, in a very short time she 
must give in, lest even worse befall her. Once or twice 
in the last two hours she thought her senses were going — 
indeed, she was not sure but for a few moments they had 
absolutely left her. She had, she believed, lost consciousness 
and awoke with a start, and feeling unable to realize 
where she was and what had occurred. It was only the 
eyes of the man opposite which had brought back her 
senses. Now a sort of hysterical, light-headed feeling was 
creeping over her ; she struggled against it, but it came 
again and again. Strange to say, Allan, Josephine, Mrs. 
Melville, everyone seemed fading from her mind — she was 
asking herself if they had any real existence, if they were 
not phantoms of her imagination ! The only thing that 
seemed real to her — the fixed purpose in her brain — was 
that she must sing and act to-night. What kept her from 
ig 


274 


A CARDINAL sin: 


doing so ? The man opposite, who wanted her to promise 
something. She had forgotten what it was. She w’ould 
ask him again presently. Oh, yes ; she would promise 
anything. He would let her go then, and she should he 
in time. The truth was, her brain was getting disordered. 

Now, strange to say, considering he had means of sus-. 
tenance at his command, Manders, although his mental 
state was all riglit, was suffering almost as much physically 
as his companion. Frances’s action, which had deprived 
him of any stimulant, w\as answerable for this. Brandy 
had become an absolute necessity to him, and he had now 
been hours and hours without it. He was in a state that 
loathed the very sight of food. The watching and absence 
of sleep were telling on his undermined constitution. He 
began to feel almost certain that, in spite of the advan- 
tages enjoyed, his prisoner would outstay him. His talk 
about the impossibility of her being traced to his house 
was to a great extent braggadocio. Even if Allan were 
fool enough to follow the false scent, others might look" in 
the right direction. He had not counted on this deter- 
mined resistance. A few hours was the outside he had 
thought possible. He reckoned greatly upon her fear of 
compromising herself by spending a night away from 
home. She had spent that night away, and, as far as he 
could see, was resolved to spend another if necessary, and 
her powers of endurance W’ould permit. Why, another 
night, or half of it, would make him helpless. He felt he 
W'as growing as weak as a cat. It was his old mistake — 
once more he had been too clever. , 

Besides, promise what she would, the evil was done — it 
was too late now — her absence was known. Allan would 
insist upon its being accounted for. It had been part of 
his plan to let it be inferred that she had gone away with 
him. He had no idea that Josephine knew anything about 

his establishment at B . But had she been fully aware 

of its existence, he felt sure it would be the last place in 
which Allan would expect to find his wife. No, he felt 
sure that fool Allan would go blundering off to Nice. 

Yet Frances might be traced. To-morrow, if he could 
last out until then, would be too late. Fler lips must be 
sealed at once— this evening. In a fortnight, a week even, 
he could make his last venture a success. He would go 
straight to Caversham Place, force those papers from 
Josephine, then down to Redhills, and make his final 
settlement with Mr. Bourchier ; then away to Spain, or 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


275 


any other country with which there is no extradition 
treaty. 

The whole tenor of his thoughts now pointed to a black 
crime. Frances’s silence must be assured. Her promise 
would be of little good to him, now that she must account 
for the time she had been away from home. 

He was thinking how he should for a while conceal the 
dark deed he was meditating. That sooner or later her 
fate would be known he did not doubt. He did not think 
a pistol-shot would be heard, and thought it would be easy 
to bestow his victim in some place, either under or above 
ground, where she might be undiscovered for many days. 
The more he thought of it the more certain it seemed to 
him that Frances must not leave that room alive. He 
longed for the missing brandy to nerve him to the deed he 
had resolved upon. 

It was nearly six o’clock. He made up his mind that at 
six o’clock it should be all over. His fingers were stealing 
furtively toward the breast of his coat. He was wonder- 
ing, with a horrible curiosity, whether one shot would suf- 
fice. Then he looked across at Frances and saw a change 
in her face. 

Her eyes met his vacantly, but she shuddered a little. 
Then she pressed her hand to her head. 

“ What did you ask me to promise ?” she inquired. I 
have forgotten.” 

‘Ht’s no good asking now,” he replied, sullenly ; “the 
time has passed for promises.” 

“Yes, but you told me I should go the moment I prom- 
ised. I must get back to-night. Tell me what to say.” 

She spoke in a bewildered way, and Manders knew that 
to let her leave the house in such a state would be fatal to 
him. His hand crept to his breast-pocket. 

“ It’s too late, I say. You won’t go back to town again ! ” 

Dazed as she was, she saw the action, and caught the 
true meaning of the words. Quick as thought she sprang 
to her feet and rushed into the inner room ; it was but 
two steps there, and her movement was such an unex- 
pected one that the villain, although he drew the pistol 
from his breast, had no time to aim. Besides, why should 
he run the chance of bungling? She was there, safe 
enough, and at his mercy. 

But as she ran she gave one piercing cry for help — aery 
which, startling and pitiful as it was, fell on one person’s 
ears like the sweetest music, in a flash showing him that 


276 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


the wife he loved was in that room by compulsion, not of 
her own free will. 

Crash ! The door was driven in and flew back against 
the wall, and, before the oath which leaped to his lips was 
uttered, Manders turned his pistol to the door and fired. 

The bullet must have passed within an inch of Allan, 
but that inch was as good as a mile. Before the trigger 
could be again drawn Allan was upon the ruffian, and as 
he came he struck full and square at the wicked face- 
such a blow as his strong arm had never before struck, 
most likely would never strike again. All the wrong and 
the rage that nerved him was thrown into that blow. It 
took effect on Manders’s temple. The man fell like a log, 
and added to the stunning consequences of that brave 
stroke by knocking his head against the chimney-piece as 
he went down. Taken altogether, it was a highly satis- 
factory blow. 

As Manders’s heels went up a second chamber of the re- 
volver exploded, but the bullet went harmlessly through 
the ceiling. Allan Bourchier took the pistol from his 
senseless toe, and went to seek his wife. 

His quick eye caught and understood everything — the 
locked door, the padded windows, the ready pistol. Frances 
had been a prisoner ; her absence was explained. But he 
had yet to learn how far the prostrate ruffian had harmed 
her. His fingers closed in an ominous fashion on the pis- 
tol-butt as he went from one room to the other, just inside 
the door of which Frances lay as senseless as her late 
jailer. 

Crushing down an impulse to return, and then and there 
put a bullet through his brother-in-law’s head, Allan raised 
his wife and sought for means to restore her to herself. 
He found the last of the water in the jug ; with this he 
bathed her face. He noticed as he did so she still wore 
her hat ; she had never once removed it. Even as he was 
chafing her hands and trying to bring her back to life, he 
kept half an eye on the other room. He had no intention 
of letting the man escape. 

But Manders’s senselessness lasted longer than did 
Frances’s. She soon opened her eyes and looked at Allan. 
She put her arms round his neck and kissed him, but 
made no allusion to the present situation. He thought 
she was strangely composed. 

“I think I have been dreaming, Allan,” she said. He 
kissed her passionately. 


A CARDINAL SDY. 


277 


“You are awake now, my darling.” 

“Yes ; but I had a dreadful dream, y’ou only woke me 
just in time.” 

“Tell me, Frances,” said Allan, in a low, eager voice, 
“has any one harmed you — even laid a finger on' you ? ” 

“No; but I dreamed he was going to kill nie. Now 
you are here, I am safe.” 

“ He never touched you — you are sure ? ” 

Frances looked at her husband very strangely. 

“No,” she said, quite calmly, “ he did not touch me. I 
should have died had he done so.” 

The life of tiie senseless man in the other room hung 
upon her answer. Her next speech puzzled Allan ; there 
was something altogether strange in her manner. 

“Allan, I am so hungry. There is bread in the cup- 
board in there. Will you get me a piece ?” 

He did her bidding wondering. He found the cupboard 
open, and containing bread and other provisions. Seeing 
these it never entered into his head that the man had been 
brutal enough to deny his wife food. 

He gave her the bread hastily, but did not see the raven- 
ous way in which she began to eat it. His eyes were fixed 
on Digby, who was showing signs of returning life. He 
had not yet finished his reckoning with him. While it was 
going on Frances had better be away. 

“ Frances,” he said, “ do you feel well enough to go out 
into the garden, and wait a few minutes for me ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” she answered. “I mustn’t stay longer here ; 
it is growing very late.” 

“You must go the back way — through the window.” 

He would not leave his enemy in order to open doors ; 
the window was very low, Frances could easily step out. 
He had no time to think what her last w^ords meant, for 
Digby was in a sitting posture, and looking wildly around. 

“Get up as soon as you can,” said Allan, covering him 
with his own pistol. “ Don’t come a step toward me, or 
you’re a dead man.” 

After a while the fellow struggled into a chair. He gave 
Allan a look full of hate, but, as he did so, he saw the de- 
termination on every feature of his face. Stunned as 
Manders felt, he knew his game was up ; indeed, he be- 
lieved Allan would shoot him. 

He winced as he saw the muzzle of that pistol held 
point blank before him. He saw the hammer was at full 
cock, and, knowing his own weapon, was aware that in 


278 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


that condition— the trigger was a hair-trigger — that the 
slightest, perhaps unintentional, pressure of Allan’s finger 
would send the bullet into his heart. 

“Turn that pistol away,” he said. “I don’t want t(j 
move.” 

Thinking a man would be unable to speak collectedly in 
such a situation, Allan complied ; and Manders breathed 
more freely in consequence. 

“Now, then,” he said, sullenly, “what are you going to 
do ? Do you mean to kill me ? ” 

“I think so,” answered Allan, with a promptitude and 
grimness of manner which made his listener’s ilesh creep. 

“Your only chance,” he continued, “ is to make a clean 
breast of it. Tell me why you induced my wife to come 
down here — why you have kept her here ? ” 

Manders, although recovering from the effects of Allan’s 
blow, was scarcely in a state to discourse connectedly. 

“ Let me think,” he said, “ for a few minutes. Keep that 
pistol away.” 

He leaned his head upon his hands, and waited until he 
felt able to decide what to do. He cursed his half-hearted 
conduct. Why had he not formed his murderous resolu- 
tion last night ! He cursed Allan for having traced his 
wife. He cursed everything and everybody. By the 
time he had raised his head he had made up his mind to 
be even with Allan at any rate. He was actually looking 
forward with pleasure to the effect of the communication 
he had to make. 

“Now then — speak,” said Allan, sternly, 

“Yes, I’ll speak, unless you make it worth my while to 
be silent. I’m going to speak.” 

“ I am not the most patient man in the world, remem- 
ber,” said Allan. 

“You’ll listen patiently enough presently. Now I’ll tell 
you what I’ll do. Give me, or promise to give me, ten 
thousand pounds, and I’ll go away and say not a word ; if 
not. I’ll tell you all now.” 

“ Are you mad ? ” asked Allan, scornfully. 

“ No ; but you will be, I guess. You won’t pay me the 
money then — to save yourself from hearing what I know.” 

“ I wouldn’t pay a farthing to save you from the hang- 
man. Go on.” 

“You'll ask me to stop presently. First of all, I’ll tell 
you why I got your wife down here. I wanted her to 
promise to tell no one my right name for a time. She 


A CARDIiVAL Sm, 


275 


wouldn’t promise, so I kept her here. She was promising^ 
when you came. She has a will of her own, but I broke 
it at last.” 

The pistol seemed striving to turn Allan’s hand toward 
the speaker. 

“Now,” said Manders, “I’ll tell you how I got her to 
come here. That’s puzzling you, isn’t it ?” 

It was, but Allan would not say so. 

“ I told her I could bring her face to face with one of 
her father’s murderers. You know her father, John Bou- 
cher, was murdered?” 

“Yes, I know it,” said Allan, glad to find the true rea- 
son of his wife’s excursion to B so clearly set out. 

“Well, now,” said Manders, “I dare say you know that 
Frances is very keen upon hanging the man who killed 
her father. I told her some one who lived here knew all 
about it. She came like a shot. She’s vindictive on that 
one thing.” 

“ Go on,” said Allan. 

Fie saw the man was talking to a purpose. 

“ I wouldn’t tell her who it was killed him,” continued 
Manders, speaking very slowly, “but I mean to tell you. 
You will be glad to know, no doubt ?” 

“ I shall be glad to set her doubts, at rest.” 

“Well, then. I’ll tell you what became of John Boucher. 
He left London and went to Blacktown ; it was three 
years ago last winter. Shall I go on, or will you pay ?” 

“ Go on,” said Allan. 

“ He went from Blacktown to Sleeford Junction. At 
Sleeford he got into a train for Brackley. Shall I go on, 
or will you pay ? ” 

“Go on, you villain,” said Allan, who felt his brow grow 
clammy. 

Manders laughed his wickedest laugh. 

“ He got out of the train at Brackley — then a gentleman 
offered to drive him to Redton ; but he never got to Red- 
ton alive. That gentleman, your father, my father-in-law, 
shot him on the road.” 

“ You liar ! ” cried Allan. “ The man he shot was a 
robber.” 

“ Robber or not, he was your wife’s father. I told you 
you had better pay.” 

Could this fellow’s tale be true ? His father the slayer 
of John Boucher ! Allan strove to scout it as a malicious 
invention, but he could not help thinking, whether true or 


28 o 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


not, the narrator believed it. Let it be true, it was some 
accident, or Frances’s father was not the man she had al- 
ways thought him to be. He had read and heard of men 
who had amassed money by highway robbery — yet to their 
families appeared the kindest and most respectable of 
creatures. Could her father have been one of these men ? 
No matter — Frances was Frances. Her father’s crimes 
must be kept from her knowledge. He felt how dis- 
tressed she would be at learning the true nature and pur- 
suits of the father she had loved. This villain must be 
lying. 

“Do you mean to say,” he said, scornfully, “that my 
wife’s father was a highwayman ? ” 

Manders laughed again. 

“ Oh dear, no — not at all. Your late father-in-law was 
a respectable, hard-working storekeeper in New York. 
He made money there. He was a much better man than 
niy father-in-law.” 

“ Speak plainly or not at all,” said Allan, haughtily. 

“ I’ll speak plainly enough — oh yes ! But I am going 
to astonish you first. I’m going to tell you who your 
wife is. It is about the strangest thing in the world that 
you should have married her.” 

Allan began to wonder what was coming. He had not 
the slightest inkling of the truth. Manders looked at him 
steadily. 

“Your wife is the daughter of John Boucher; John 
Boucher was the son of James Boucher, or Bourchier, 
who brought three actions against the owners of Rcdhills, 
claiming the property.” 

Allan grew very pale. 

“Just before James Bourchier died he found the certifi- 
cate which proved him to be legitimate. This with other 
papers was in his son John Boucher’s possession when he 
went that night to Brackley. Curious he should have 
tried to rob and murder your father when he could claim 
by law every fartliing he possessed.” 

“You are lying!” cried Allan. The insinuation Man- 
ders had made was too horrible to be for a moment enter- 
tained. 

“ Strange to say. I’m not lying now. You’ll ask for 
proofs. Go home and say to Josephine, ‘ Give me those 
papers you stole out of your husband’s safe.’ They’re all 
in her hands — the little devil ! Read them over carefully, 
and you'll find you’ve married your cousin. If it’s any 


A CARDINAL SIN. 2Z1 

comfort to you, you can’t be deprived of the estate— that’s 
your wife’s.” 

“And who are you ? — you fiend !” asked Allan. 

“ Frances will tell you if you ask her. She’s been trying 
to find me for a long time. Anyway, you’ll guess I’m not 
Digby Bourchier.” 

“ I never thought you were. I know now ; your name 
fs Manders.” # 

“ Tiiat’s it exactly. You’ve heard it before. Frances 
told you I was the only person who knew how her father 
died. That ought to show you I am speaking the truth. 
But you go to Josephine and get the papers.” 

The pistol was trying very hard to turn Allan’s hand — 
so hard that Manders noticed the struggle and trembled. 
Allan was in deep thought. 

“ Now,” said Manders, “ if you like to pay me that money 
I’ll go and say nothing. Frances or no one else will be 
the wiser ; you can settle down and live at peace.” 

Never ! If the thing were true, the consequences must 
be accepted. Yet, until he had his father’s word for it, he 
would never believe the statements of this perjured impos- 
tor. And Frances — how could he meet Frances, who was 
waiting in the garden for him ? How could he face her 
■while there was a chance of Manders’s words being true "i 
Her father’s blood on his father’s hands ! A burning wish 
seized Allan to stand face to face with his father and hear 
him deny it. Till that happened he could find no happi- 
ness in life. He would believe his father’s word against 
any assertion made by this black-hearted villain. 

He I'ose and left the room — left the house without look- 
ing again at Manders. Now he knew that Frances had 
been lured away and detained for tlie man’s own evil ends, 
he felt he need not take the deadly vengeance he had con- 
templated taking. Everything now was merged into that 
one dread that Manders’s words were true — that his father 
had killed John Boucher. He would go to Redhills to- 
night, if he could catch a train. Till his father’s denial 
took this weight from his heart he could not eat, drink, 
nor sleep ; or he fancied such actions were impossible. 
He went out of the house, through the window by which 
he had entered. He stepped out into the garden — for the 
sun was going down — and looked around for Frances, 
blaming himself for having left her alone. But the tale 
he had heard, he felt, was an ample excuse for his neglect. 

With a lightened heart Manders saw him leave the house. 


282 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


He opened the front door and watched him looking about 
the garden in search of his wife. He smiled an evil smile 
as he thought that however much his own schemes went 
astray, lie had fully quitted himself with respect to Allan. 
The ruffian’s bones and head were aching, and he was 
pining for brandy. 

Where was Frances ? Allan sought her all over the 
f place ; he even re-entered the house and looked for her. 
He called her, but there was no reply. How bitterly he 
blamed himself for leaving her for one moment. The very 
vengeance he had meant to take had recoiled on his own 
head. Had he left Manders in silent scorn, and taken 
Frances away, he would not have heard a word of the 
dreadful accusation against his father. 

Wherever his wife was, she had left “The Shrubbery.” 
Perhaps she was weary of waiting and liad gone toward 
home. He would follow her. No doubt she was in the 
waiting-room at the station. 

He made the best of his way there. As he passed through 
the village the saddler who- had given him such valuable 
information saluted him respectfully. Allan could not 
bring himself to stop and inquire whether the little man 
had seen the lady pass ; he went on quickly to the railway 
station. Frances was not there, but an official informed 
him that a lady answering to her description had taken 
the previous train to town. 

Fie was glad to hear it ; she was safe and on her way 
home. He had no wish to see his wife again until he had 

been to Redhills. Another train would leave B in a 

few minutes. He would just have time to drive to Caver- 
sham Place, ask Josephine if her husband’s statement as to 
the purloined papers was true, then catch the limited mail 
for the West. 

Allan wondered if any man had ever found such varying 
emotions and stirring events crowded into one day, as he 
had found in this one. In it he had lived a lifetime ! 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

BROKEN DOWN. 

Following her husband’s instructions, Frances left the 
cottage by passing through the open window, but she 
walked and acted much as a somnambulist might have 


A CARBhVAL SI AT. 


283 


done. She was in that state which can only be expressed 
by the word dazed. The frame of mind she was in was 
most peculiar. All that had happened since she left her 
home down to the present moment seemed blurred and 
confused. She had a dim idea that in some way her life 
had been in peril — that Allan had made his appearance at 
a critical moment — that some one had been killed ; not 
Allan, for she had just left him. She grew more and more 
puzzled, and unable to think about these things in a con- 
nected way. Only two things seemed clear to her — she 
wanted food and drink, and she was bound to get to Lon- 
don in time to sing this evening. She knew she was in a 
strange place, yet the way back seemed quite familiar to 
her. She must go that way at once. Allan would excuse 
her ; he was detained, but would follow her soon. She 
tried to remember the business that made him linger, but 
found herself unable to direct her thoughts to that end. 
The truth is, that Frances’s brain was playing her strange 
tricks. The confinement, the bad atmosphere, the watch- 
ing, the deprivation of food, and finally, the horror which 
had seized her when she grasped Manders’s deadly pur- 
pose, had to a great extent unhinged her mind. All she 
could now realize was that she must be at the opera-house 
by a certain time this evening. 

She walked down the winding path until she reached the 
gate which opened to the road. It was locked. No mat- 
ter ; the ground inside the paling rose in one place until 
it came within a foot or two of the top. She climbed over 
and dropped into the road without accident. Then she 
turned her face toward the village, and walked on with 
what speed she could muster. 

She heard the sound of wheels behind her, and, turning, 
she saw a high dog-cart driven by a gentleman. Almost 
mechanicallv she raised her hand and called to him to 
stop his horse. 

“ I should be glad if you would drive me to the railway 
station,” she said. 

The gentleman, a young man of about twenty-five, 
looked amused. She had not asked a favor — only ex- 
pressed a wish, and expressed it as if she expected instant 
compliance. 

“ f would with pleasure,” he said, “but I am not going 
that way.” 

“ Still I should be glad,” she said. “ It is a matter of 
great importance to me.” 


284 


A CAIWIjVAL S//V. 


He saw she was speaking in earnest. The station was 
not very far out of his way ; and, besides, young men are 
generally glad to oblige a beautiful woman. Pie raised 
his hat. 

“ Certainly I will. Can you step up ?” 

She took the seat next him. 

“ Please to drive quickly,” she said. 

He wondered greatly who his companion could be. He 
attempted to draw her into conversation, but her replies 
to his remarks were so strange and far from the subject 

that by the time he drew up at B Station he had come 

to the conclusion she had escaped from some lunatic 
asylum, and doubted wiiether he had done rightly in lend- 
ing her assistance. However, it was no business of his. 

. She thanked him as she descended from the dog-cart — 
thanked liim quietly, without effusion, as though he had 
only done what duty called upon him to do. Then the 
door of the station closed behind her, and he saw her no 
more. He never knew who the mysterious lady was, or 
how greatly that dog-cart had been honored. 

It seemed quite in the order of things that a train 
should be just starting. Frances took her seat. She sunk 
into it wearily and tried to think and remember things, but 
that strange stuffy feeling in her head prevented her doing 
so; besides, the rattle of the train seemed to scatter all her 
thoughts as she strove to force them into coherence. All 
except one— she was to make her reappearance on the 
stage to-night. 

The train was a fast one ; in forty minutes she was on 
the platform at Charing Cross. Ten minutes later a han- 
som drove up to Caversham Place, and Frances stood on 
her own doorstep. 

She opened the door with her latch-key, and walked into 
the dining-room. It was untenanted. She rang the bell. 
A servant appeared, and gave a start of surprise at seeing 
her mistress. 

“ Get me food and wine at once,” said Frances. “ Any- 
thing — but get it at once.” 

The servant retreated and bore the news to Mrs. Melville 
and Josephine. In a minute, they were with Frances, 
Mrs. Melville embracing and kissing her, Josephine hold- 
ing her hand and weeping tears of joy. Frances had re- 
turned of her own accord. How she had wronged her. 
How she would pray for forgiveness and try to atone for 
the momentary shadow cast by her suspicions. 


A CARDIJVAL SIJV. 


£85 


“ Oh, my dear !” said Mrs. Melville, “ what a fright you 
have given us all. Where have you been ? Why did you 
not write or telegraph ? Allan is hunting high and low 
for you.” 

“ Where have you been ? ” echoed Josephine. 

Frances pressed her hand across her forehead, as if try- 
ing to brush those cobwebs out of her brain. She looked 
almost vacantly at her inquirers. 

“ I don’t know,” she said, wearily, “ I can’t remember. 
Get me something to eat and drink.” 

The servant entered with a tray of provisions. Frances 
sat down and ate her food in a strangely eager manner. 
Mrs. Melville and Josephine ministered to her wants, but 
while doing so exchanged fearful glances. 

The meal was soon finished— every minute Frances 
glanced at the clock. She pushed away her plate and rose. 

“ Order the brougham,” she said ; “ I must start in a 
few minutes.” 

“ But tell us something, dear,” pleaded Mrs. Melville. 
^‘Tell us where you have been ?” 

“ I can’t remember,” said Frances, almost pettishly. 

Order the carriage, please.” 

Josephine did so. There was. something in her sister- 
in-law’s appearance which frightened her. Her face at 
one moment was flushed, at the next deadly white. Her 
eyes looked unusually large and bright, and she noticed 
her fingers moved nervously. 

“ Don’t go to the theatre to-night,” said Josephine ; ‘‘ I 
am sure you are ill. Send a note and say so.” 

Frances smiled for the first time since she had entered 
the house. The impossibility of such a course amused 
her bewildered brain. 

“ I am well enough to sing,” she said, turning to leave 
the room. 

What about Allan ? He had left the house a few hours 
ago with a look on his face which had haunted Josephine 
ever since. She knew what that expression meant. She 
did not wonder at it. Romance still lingered in her mind, 
and it seemed only fit and proper that her brother should 
depart like this to reckon up with the man who, to all ap- 
pearances, had wronged him. Had she been a man her 
errand would have been for the same purpose as Allan’s. 
But she trembled lest anything had happened to him. 
For a moment Frances’s reappearance had stilled her fears. 
There was nothing to revenge, so there was nothing to be 


286 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


afraid of. But Frances’s strange manner, and inability or 
disinclination to account in any way for her prolonged 
absence, were startling. She arrested Frances as her hand 
was on the door. 

“ Have you seen Allan ? ” she asked. 

“Have I seen Allan?” She put her hand to her head 
as she echoed Josephine’s words. “Yes, I saw him— some- 
where. I forget where.” 

“ Why did he not come back with you ? When will he 
be here ? ” 

“Something detained him — some business.” 

All the recent events seemed mixed up without being 
capable of sorting themselves in her brain. 

“ He will be here soon,” she continued ; “ I suppose I 
could not spare the time to wait for him. That must have 
been it.” 

There was a curious puzzled look in her large bright 
eyes, the pupils of which were dilated to an extraordinary 
extent. The hand Josephine held was dry, hot, and fever- 
ish. She must know something more ! 

“ Did you see my husband — Digby ? ” she asked. 

Frances turned her eyes upon her ; the question sug- 
gested something. 

“I think I saw the devil,” she said, in an awed whisper. 
“ Yes, it must have been the devil. I have been dreaming, 
I suppose. I dreamed Allan came and killed him.” 

Then she drew her hand forcibly from Josephine’s and 
left the room. What had happened ? What tragedy had 
taken place ? It seemed impossible to get any sense from 
Frances. Josephine grew much frightened. Her only 
comfort was that Frances had assured her that Allan would 
soon be here. She could not believe that any bodily ill 
had befallen him. If any one had suffered violence it was 
her husband. 

She turned to Mrs, Melville, who was looking very pale. 
She had also been much troubled by Frances’ queer mood 
and unsatisfactory words. Josephine’s allusion to her hus- 
band she did not understand. 

“She is ill,” said Josephine. “We ought not to allow 
her to go.” 

“ My dear, how can we keep her ? It is only force that 
will prevent her.” 

“What can have happened?” groaned Josephine. 
“ She must not go alone,” she continued, turning to ...viis. 
Melville. 


^ CARDINAL SIN. 


2S7 


‘‘ No ; I’ll go with her.” 

Josephine did not attempt to dissuade her, nor did slic 
volunteer to be the one to accompany P' ranees. She must 
stay at home and wait for Allan. If he did not return in 
an hour’s time she must go, or send in search of him, to 
the place for which he had started. 

Mrs. Melville followed Frances up-stairs, and, after put- 
ting on her bonnet and cloak, went into her bedroom. 
Frances had bathed her face and hands, changed her at- 
tire, and was now standing with her jewel-case in front of 
her, selecting the adornments for the part she was to play. 
She turned her head as Mrs. Melville entered, but made no 
remark. Upon that lady once more begging her to change 
her mind, she shrugged her shoulders and frowned. 

Please don’t worry me any more,” she said, so peev- 
ishly that the color rose in Mrs. Melville’s cheeks. Frances 
had never before spoken to her like this. 

She said nothing as she entered the brougham — said 
nothing when she found Mrs. Melville seated beside her — 
neither thanked her for her company, nor objected to it. 
They reached the theatre, through the stage-door of which 
she passed quickly, taking no notice of the companion 
who followed her, marvelling that fate should have led her 
of all persons to such a place as behind the scenes of a 
theatre. But the end in view sanctioned the departure 
from her former rigid code, and her conscience was at 
rest. 

The first person to greet Mdlle. Francesca was the man- 
ager. “ I knew you would come — would not deceive me 
and put me in such a hole.” He spoke in a tone of such 
heart-felt relief, that the puzzled look came again into the 
singer’s eyes. 

Of course ; why should I not come ? ” she said ; then 
she passed swiftly on to her dressing-room, leaving the 
manager a happy man again, and able to go to Madame 
Mirabella and inform her that her services as stop-gap 
would not, he was thankful to say, be required after all, 
toning down the disappointment his communication in- 
flicted by expressing his undying gratitude for the prompt 
and kindly way in which she had offered to help him in 
his difficulty. Never would he forget it, etc., etc. 

Since yesterday morning he had felt himself to be a 
particularly ill-used man. There were several things 
about which he wanted to see Mdlle. Francesca, and she 
was invisible. Neither Mrs. Melville nor Josephine was 


258 


A CARDINAL SIN 


silly enough to give an outsider a hint that Fi ances had 
disappeared. He was told she was out, and the hour of 
her return was uncertain. Accustomed as he was to the 
eccentricities, vagaries, and pleasant little ways of many 
of his prime donne^ he could only shrug his shoulders and 
wait patiently ; but not without wondering if Mdlle. Fran- 
cesca, who had hitherto been a paragon of consideration 
for a manager’s exigencies, was going to fall into fidgety 
ways. It was only wlien the best part of Saturday had 
gone by that he began to get alarmed, and insisted upon 
knowing what had become of his star. The confused re- 
plies given him by the ladies told him that something was 
wrong, and, by asking them point-blank and expatiating 
on the difficulties any concealment on their part would 
lead him into, he learned that Mdlle. Francesca’s where- 
abouts was a thing unknown. Still he trusted her, and 
waited almost till the eleventh hour ; then all he could do 
was to find a substitute — the best that could be obtained 
at so short a notice. But it was a terrible thino: to be 
forced to do on the opening night of the season. It is no 
wonder that even his seasoned heart leaped within him 
when, just as all hope had vanished, Mdlle. Francesca ap- 
peared. 

“ I should never have heard the last of it,” he said, as 
Francesca left him; “never! Hang it, if I don’t think 
they’d have hissed the roof off ! ” 

Now all was right. Tiie excusatory speech he had been 
framing was superfluous. The fictitious hoarseness and 
cold for wliich he intended to entreat his patrons’ indul- 
gence and sympathy need not be described. She was 
here, and the peril was past. 

He had noticed slic did not look quite herself, but at- 
tributed her changed appearance to natural excitement. 
She was still a young hand — not quite stage-proof. He 
had found no time to inquire as to her health ; the mo- 
ments were too precious to waste on such conventional- 
ities. If she had been ill he knew she would find strength 
to do all that was needed. He was no stranger to the for- 
titude displayed by the profession, when suffering from 
the severest bodily and mental ailments. If she was well 
enough to come at all playing her part properly was a nat- 
ural sequence. He heard the overture commence with a 
contented spirit. 

Meanwhile Frances, accompanied by Mrs. Melville, had 
reached her dressing-room. Everything ^yas in readiness. 


A CARDINAL SIA^, 


289 


Her maid had l(Doked to the smallest detail. Her nimble 
fingers were ready to equip her mistress. There was little 
time to spare, so the Abigail could waste none in talking. 
But even she wondered at the strange look on Mdlle. Fran- 
cesca’s face — at the preoccupied, mechanical way in tvliich 
she let herself be robed — at her unusual silence — at the 
absence of any kind word. But no doubt the hurried toi- 
let she was compelled to make accounted for everything. 

The last fold was barely adjusted when she was called. 
Without a word or a sigh she left the room, and in a few 
moments Mrs. Melville heard the storm of applause which 
greeted the reappearance of the favorite of last season. 

The opera was that good old popular Philistine, II Ti'o- 
vatore^ that marvel of melody linked to a ludicrous libretto 
— hackneyed, barrel-organed, but ever living. Let the ad- 
vanced school shudder at its vicious construction and in- 
artistic method ; let theri^i condemn its solos, duets, and 
trios ; let them persuade us for a while that page after 
page of monotonous declamation is the only true form of 
art — that a leit-motif is all the melody we are entitled to 
ask for; still our old friend will survive. Make it penal 
to produce him, say for ten years ; fine and imprison every 
one who hums a bar of him — then bring him out and see 
the effect. 1 1 is strains will fall upon ears which have heard 
nothing but harsh sounds, as the song of the birds would 
strike a man who had just emerged, after a long day’s work, 
from a sawpit. Ah, what a good time composers are having 
now! It takes a clever man to write a fine, original mel- 
ody. What a good thing tliat melody is not in demand ! 

The dear old stock opera was child’s-play to Mdlle. 
Francesca. During the last twelve months she had played 
it many times — every bar of music, every word of the 
libretto, ever}?- necessary action and gesture, was as famil- 
iar to her as the alphabet. If, when she stepped on the 
stage, she felt as one in a dream ; if that feeling continued 
with her when she left the stage ; the whole time she was 
facing her audience her brain seemed to be clear and in 
proper working order, although that power of working 
Avas limited, and lasted only as^long as she was Leonora, 
the loving and luckless heroine. 

After the end of the first act it was clear that Mdlle. 
Francesca’s previous successes Avere to be confirmed. The 
opinion expressed by everyone Avas that she had never 
sung or acted better. The absence from England had not 
injured her A^oice. A few persons in the stalls thought she 

. 19 


290 


A CARDINAL SIN 


was not looking" in the best of health — or not in such 
splendid health as when she last trod these boards. Among 
these close observers was the eminent specialist who had 
once been privileged to peer into the mechanism of the 
throat which produced those silvery notes. He had made 
a point of attending to hear her to-night ; as, for scientific 
reasons, he took a great interest in her career. As he 
heard the wonderful power and range of her voice, he was 
glad to believe for once he was mistaken. It seemed ab- 
surd for any one, scientist or layman, who heard her sing- 
ing like this, to think for one moment there could be even 
incipient mischief at work. 

But when Leonora left the stage and for a while became 
Mdlle. Francesca, she seemed to leave her senses and 
vitality behind lier, like a handkerchief to be picked up 
again when she returned to the place where it was dropped. 
It was not long before it began to be whispered about be- 
hind the scenes that something was wrong with the priina 
donna If spoken to she either made no reply or answered 
in words which had little relevancy to the question. She 
leaned wearily and apathetically against the wail of the 
green-room. Every one saw she was not herself, but no 
one dreamed what the real truth was. The manager be- 
gan to grow alarmed and wished the opera was at an end. 
His kindly inquiries and offers of any assistance obtainable 
were met with the unvarying and mechanical words, “ I 
am quite well enough to sing.” She was ready the moment 
her cue was given ; on the stage she was full of life and 
purpose, but each time she left it seemed to sink more and 
more into that strange, unaccountable state. So much so 
that at the end of the second act the manager doubted 
whether her part would be played out. 

Poor Mrs. Melville, who was initiated by the maid into 
the mysteries of the ways behind the scenes, and placed 
in the proper spot to receive Frances when she made her 
exits, was growing more nervous every moment. Instead 
of getting better, her charge was getting worse. Any re- 
marks she could get from her seemed more and more in- 
coherent. Moreover, she was astonished that Allan had 
not yet appeared. She felt it must be something extra- 
ordinary which kept him from the theatre on this particu- 
lar night. She asked the manager if he did not notice the 
condition Frances was in ; and begged him to ask the pub- 
lic to excuse her from further exertions. The manager 
smiled at her simplicity. 


A CARDIArAL SIM 


291 


** But she is so ill,” pleaded Mrs. Melville. 

“Take her home directly it is over, and send for a doc- 
tor. I will come round the first thing in the morning. 
The opera will soon be finished now.” 

Leonora was singing her last song, she had almost come 
to the end of it ; in a few minutes her task would be com- 
pleted ; the rich notes seemed coming almost without ex- 
ertion from her grand chest, when nature, which had until 
now been very merciful and forbearing, suddenly refused 
to suspend its laws in her favor any longer. All at once 
she stopped her song, and an uncomfortable feeling ran 
like lightning through that large audience. The con- 
ductor looked up in dismay, but his baton continued to 
move, and the accompaniment went on, sounding cold, 
thin, and cheerless without the magic of the voice. It was 
but a slip, she would take up the strain again in a moment. 
She did ; by a great effort she crushed down the lump which 
seemed trying to choke her, and for a few bars her voice 
rang out again, then stopped as dead as it stopped before. 
There could be no doubt of it now, Mdlle. Francesca had 
broken down. Many of the audience sprang to their feet 
in surprise, even horror, as they saw her eyes flickering, 
saw her struggling as with something unseen, saw her 
look wildly round, and then fall a dead heap on the stage. 

The curtain came down with a bang. Willing arms 
bore her inanimate form to her dressing-room, and medi- 
cal aid was at once summoned. The manager went before 
the curtain and made the best he could of the matter, tell- 
ing the alarmed but sympathetic audience that Mdlle. Fran- 
cesca had been far from well lately ; that, against all ad- 
vice, she had insisted upon appearing to-night — she would 
not disappoint her patrons. Her strength liad been over- 
taxed, but no doubt a few days’ rest would make her all 
right again. 

The opera being very near its end, the audience soon 
departed, the eminent specialist in the stalls remarking 
to his next-door neighbor, perhaps not without a feeling 
of satisfaction, that his prediction seemed likely to be ful- 
filled. 

“ We are lucky to have been here to-night. Mdlle. Fran- 
cesca will never sing again. I told her husband a year ago 
her career would be a short one.” 

Then he went behind the scenes to see if he could ren- 
der any aid but others were before him. As a doctor he 
knew the sudden loss of voice was brought about by some 


292 A CARDJA^AL SIJ\r. 

bodily ailment Very likely, as the manager said, she had 
overtaxed her strength, and her throat had given out It 
was just as he had prophesied. 

And Frances ? She was now lying with her eyes open, 
calling wildly on Allan to save her fronri some horrible fate! 
Allan ! Allan ! Allan ! was her continual cry. 

She was taken home as speedily as possible. Josephine, 
when she saw her carried in thus delirious, wondered what 
more of horror and mystery that day had to bring forth. 
It was only about an hour after Frances had left for the 
theatre that things seemed to have taken a turn for the 
better. Allan had come back. His sister hurried to greet 
him. Her satisfaction was short-lived. The look on his 
face was as painful a one as it bore when he started. His 
first question was for Frances, and he seemed somewhat 
relieved at hearing she had been home and then gone to 
the theatre. His next question, or rather command it may 
be called, was for certain papers which he had been in- 
formed were in Josephine’s possession. 

. His manner was so peremptory that she did not attempt 
to resist his demand. Without a word she brought him 
the pocket-book. He tore the papers out of it with fever- 
ish impatience, looked at them all, then replacing them, 
leaned his head upon his hands, a prey apparently to the 
deepest emotion. Springing to his feet, he told his sister 
he was going to the West to-night. He did not know when 
he should return. He would write to-morrow. Then he 
was gone like a whirlwind. 

The only thing Josephine could clearly comprehend was 
that although the two men had met, she was not a widow. 
This was sorry comfort, although she was glad Allan had 
not her wretched husband’s life to answer for. 

And, now, Frances was brought home delirious, with 
fever raging in her brain, and all the nightlong lay calling 
for Allan ! Allan ! Allan ! 


CHAPTER XXV. 

IN SUSPENSE. 

It was past midnight when Allan reached Blacktown. 
The fatigue, emotions, and events which had been crowded 
into the day were beginning to tell upon his strong frame. 
Indeed, for the best part of that hundred miles which the 


m 


A CARDIiVAL SIJ^. 

limited mail runs without stopping he had been sleeping. 
It was well he could do so, for the horror of Manders's ac- 
cusation against his father could hardly be borne. Al’ 

the way from B to London he had told himself it was 

nothing but a malicious invention — told himself this so 
often that he fully believed that this explanation was the 
right one. It was only when Josephine handed him the 
papers, only when he found that they corroborated one 
portion of the ruffian’s tale, the dread crept over him that 
the remaining part might not be without foundation. In 
its full meaning he could not bring himself to credit it for a 
moment. Nothing except his father’s own avowal should 
persuade him that for the purpose stated by Manders he 
had shot down in cold blood an innocent man. There 
must be some fearful mistake or misapprehension. Yet 
Allan knew he would find no peace until he had heard his 
father distinctly deny the crime. His one object was to 
get to Redhills as soon as possible. Let it be by day or 
night, what did it matter? Till this weight was taken 
from his mind day and night were alike to him. 

It was not until he reached Blacktown the thought 
struck him that his frame was but mortal. He could 
scarcely remember how many hpurs had passed since he 
had tasted food. He could not afford to play tricks with 
himself. He should want his strength. So he ordered 
supper at the Railway Inn, and surprised the good people 
there by asking for a carriage and pair of horses to drive 
forthwith to Redhills. As the limited mail did not stop at 
Sleeford, Blacktown, distant as it was from his home, was 
the nearest point to which he could get. 

He could not wait at Blacktown until the morning train. 
His passionate desire was to reach his father’s house and 
learn the truth. By driving he could be there some five 
or six hours the sooner, so he must drive. The carriage 
and horses were forthcoming, and a discontented driver 
was found. It was no joke for a man after his day’s work 
to be knocked up and ordered to drive in the dead of 
night rather more than twenty miles. The only thing that 
consoled the unfortunate man was finding that his em- 
ployer was young Mr. Bourchier, who was an open-handed 
gentleman, one of the right sort, who would not forget 
what was due at the journey’s end. 

So Allan started on his dreary drive — dreary in itself, 
but doubly so from the uncertainty as to what awaited him 
at the end of it. 


294 


A CAJ^D/A'AL SJN. 


It was the second time within twenty-four hours he had 
traversed that country.^ Twenty-four hours ! He smiled 
incredulously as he remembered the fact. It seemed 
twenty-four years ago— twenty-four years of a busy life. 
He wished at times, as he thought over all that had oc- 
curred, he had followed the impulse of the moment and 
put a bullet through the head of the man who had un- 
doubtedly tried to take his life. All this grief would then 
have been avoided. Then he thought of Frances being 
his cousin — his wife the owner of Redhiiis, For Allan was 
lawyer enough to know the, value of the papers he carried. 
Except for this one thing— the crime of which Manders ac- 
cused his father — how fortunate his marriage would have 
been. Then another fear shot through him. What if 
Manders should go to Frances, or write to her, telling her 
the same tale he had told him ! Allan little thought that 
at the present moment his wife was lying unable to recog- 
nize a person or understand a word—- that on Monday 
morning every paper would give the details of the sudden 
illness of that gifted singer, Mdlle. Francesca. This was 
another arrow on the Avay to him, but not yet arrived at 
its destination. 

Slowly, very slowly the miles were passed over. If the 
fast train from London seemed to travel on leaden wheels, 
there is no simile which will express the tardy pace at 
which, to Allan, the carriage travelled. The moon was 
shining, so, knowing every landmark, he could calculate 
the distance from Redhiiis. They pass village after vil- 
lage. Now they are at Brackley, now going down Little- 
steep, now painfully dragging up Steepsides. Allan shud- 
dered and turned his head away, as, in the light of the 
pale moon, a dead fir-tree stood out among its living and 
dark-green kin. He knew it marked the very spot where 
his father had nearly. four years ago shot the man whom 
until now he had always looked upon as having been noth- 
ing but a highwayman. He knew the place well. He had 
even, at the time the deed was done, felt proud of his 
father’s presence of mind and promptitude. He had never 
passed that spot with a companion but he had paused and 
pointed out that withered tree, and narrated the circum- 
stance it recorded. Now he could not look at it. Was it 
not liis wife’s father who had fallen dead on the road at 
this very place ? Was it not his own father who had shot 
him ? 

He would soon be at Redhiiis and know all. His great 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


295 

hope was to find Mr. Bourchier as ignorant as he himself 
had hitherto been as to the name of his victim. The 
horses had struggled to the top of Steepsides, and in a 
very short time he would be at his father’s house. It was 
past three o’clock in the morning, but he felt no hesitation 
about knocking the inmates up and arousing his father. 
Such a question as the one he had to ask was too impor- 
tant to reed any apology. He looked out of the carriage 
window — he was now so near to the goal that he believed 
he would be able to see, even through the night, the large 
house. He was not mistaken. It rose black against the 
sky — black and threatening. He dreaded the look of the 
gloomy pile. It was the first time in his life that the 
sight of the house which would one day be his own was 
not a welcome one. 

As he sat and looked at it he was surprised to see that 
lights were moving about inside, that something unusual 
was going on ; that the household had not yet retired to 
rest. It could mean only one thing: his father was ill, 
perhaps dead or dying, with the words he must hear un- 
spoken. His heart beat at the thought. He called on the 
driver to urge his tired horses to a gallop ; every moment 
was precious. The horses and dri\’^r did their best, and 
very shortly the carnage drew up at the lodge gates. Allan 
was too impatient to wait while the lodge-keeper was sum- 
moned. He sprang out of the carriage, and telling the 
man to go to the stables and put up, climbed the gate and 
ran at full speed up the carriage drive. 

The house door was soon opened to him — opened by the 
respectable Steel, whose face and general appearance be- 
tokened catastrophe. 

“Mr. Allan, is it?” he said. “You are badly wanted 
Iiere, sir.” 

“What is it?” cried Allan. “Tell me quickly! — my 
father ” 

“ He’s very, very bad, sir. We are all much alarmed. ’ 

“Not dead ! Say he is not dead ! ” 

“No, sir; but quite insensible. A stroke. I’m afraid, if 
I may make so bold, sir.” 

“ Where is my mother ? Tell her I am here.” 

Steel departed to do his bidding, and Allan, opening the 
first door he came to, sank upon a chair and waited in 
darkness until Steel returned with a lamp. 

“ You look worn out, Mr. Allan,” he said, with the solici- 
tude of an old retainer. “ Shall I get you anything, sir ?” 


A CARD/A^AL SIA\ 


2y6 

“Yes— some wine.” The truth is that Allan was about 
worn out 

Then Mrs. Bourchier entered, clad in a dressing-gown, 
and evidently equipped for night watching. She threw 
herself into her tall son’s arms. 

“ Oh, Allan, my boy ! thank God you have come ! How 
did you hear of it ? But never, mind how, as you have come.” 

have heard nothing — know nothing. Tell me all, 
mother.” 

There was not very much to tell. At nine o’clock the 
night before Mr. Bourchier had been found insensible in 
his chair, breathing heavily. They had carried him to his 
room, and sent for the nearest doctor. Allan had been 
telegraphed for, a groom having ridden over to Longmere 
for that purpose ; but, of course, he had not received the 
message, being on his way to Redhills before it was sent. 
Every thing liad been tried to restore consciousness to Mr. 
Bourchier, but, as yet, without success. His breathing 
seemed quieter and his general condition more easy, but 
he had not yet spoken. 

“ But he will speak — he must speak again ! ” cried Allan. 
He shuddered as he thought of the chance of death rob- 
bing him of the explanation he had come for. Great as 
the shock of his father’s sudden illness was — much as it 
grieved him — this dread doubled the blow and the sorrow 
he felt. 

Mrs. Bourchier, who believed his anxiety was only from 
a natural wish to hear his father’s voice again, and be rec- 
ognized by him, kissed her son fondly. 

“ We hope so — we trust so ; but the doctor cannot say. 
We shall telegraph the first thing in the morning to Black- 
town for the best doctor there. Oh, my son, thank 
Heaven you have come ! ” 

“ Has any thing happened to upset him since yesterday 
morning ? ” 

Allan did not know what awful surprises might have oc- 
curred since he left Redhills. After all that had transpired 
he would be astonished at no calamity which had over- 
taken any member of the family. 

“ He seemed much troubled by your sudden departure. 
He had been wondering all day what was the matter. In- 
deed, we both looked out anxiously for a telegram from 
you to say it was nothing serious.” 

There was a little gentle reproach in the mother’s last 
words. 


A CAI^DIxVAL SI AT, 297 

“ I bad no time to send it,” said Allan. ‘‘ It was a 
troublesome and unpleasant matter which made them send 
for me. I was just able to avoid evil consequences.” 

Then Mrs. Bourchi'er, in spite of her grief, found words 
to inquire for Frances and Josephine. Allan satisfied her 
as well as he could, but not sufficiently well to set her mind 
entirely at rest. She felt something had occurred in Lon- 
don as well as at Redhills. - . 

“ May I see my father ? ” asked Allan. 

“ Yes, of course. I should like you to see him ; but he 
won’t know you, Allan.” 

She led him to the room in which Mr. Bourchicr lay. 
She had described his condition truthfully. For' the time 
he was oblivious to all that went on around him. The 
hope his son had entertained that he would recognize him 
sank to the ground as he saw the pale drawn face and 
closed eyes. It was as though he slept a dreamless sleep. 
Allan groaned, and kneeling by the bedside, took his 
father’s hand in his own and pressed it. No, he would 
never believe that blood, blood shed murderously, was on 
that hand. But he prayed, as he kneeled by the senseless 
form, that this sleep might not be an endless one ; that, if 
but for a minute, his eyes would open and consciousness 
return, that he might ask him that one question, and hear 
him deny the deed. His father’s word — ^and, moreover, 
spoken with death close at hand — should outweigh a thou- 
sand oaths of such a villain as George Manders ! 

He rose from his knees and turned to the doctor, who 
was in the room. 

“He will wake again?” heasked inahoarse, eagerwhisper. 

“ I hope so — I can’t tell yet. Anyway, there is no im- 
mediate fear of a change for the worse. It may be it is 
better he should lie like this. Half the ailment, I am in- 
clined to think, may be mental.” 

Allan shivered. Could any thing — he feared to think 
what — be preying on his father’s mind ? 

The doctor looked at him inquisitively. His pale face 
and jaded look told him that unless proper care were ex- 
ercised he w’Ould have another patient to look after to- 
morrow. 

“ Now,” he said, with kindly authority, “you go to bed 
— you can do nothing here.” 

Go to bed, and perhaps lose the precious moment when 
it came ! Never ! So long as he could keep his eyes open 
his post was here. 


298 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


‘‘ I shall stay with my father,” he said, firmly. Never, 
theless, he threw himself into a chair with a W'eariness 
which did not escape the doctor’s eyes, 

“You won’t do any thing of the sort,” he said, stepping 
over to Mrs. Bourchier, and begging her assistance in co- 
ercing this stubborn young man. 

When he heard that Allan had been to town and back 
during the last twenty-four hours, he was even more de- 
termined to carry his point. Mrs. Bourchier lent her aid 
readily, but it was a long while before Allan could be in- 
duced to accede to their wishes. When at last he gave in, 
it was only upon the solemn assurance that the moment 
his father showed the slightest sign of returning animation 
he should be called. Again and again he made them re- 
peat this promise. Except for the peculiarity of such a 
proceeding, he might have put them on their oaths. He 
only yielded when his mother, with tears in her eyes, 
said— 

“ My boy, do you think I am not as anxious as you that 
your father shall see and speak to the son he has always 
loved and been so proud of ? Do you think I do not also 
fear it may be the last time he will do so ? ” 

, Then he went to his old room, and, as he lay down, every 
thing faded from him — trouble, dread, uncertainty, all fled 
before that powerful spell of utter fatigue. He slept for 
hours and hours^ — slept until the Redton Church bells were 
calling people to resist the out-door temptations of that 
bright May morning, and devote themselves to the religious 
duties demanded, at least once a week, from all respecta- 
ble people. 

The moment his eyes opened every thing came back 
with a rush to him. Hastily throwing on some indispen- 
sable clothes he crept across to his father’s room and 
listened. Hearing nothing, he tapped gently at the door. 
His mother opened it. She was looking wan and haggard 
from the night watching. She read the question “ Is he 
sensible ?” on his eager face before he asked it in words. 
She only shook her head sadly, and kissing him, moved 
aside and let him enter. At a glance he saw that his father 
lay in exactly the same state. When would he return to 
his senses ? How long must Allan endure this dreadful 
suspense ? 

Mrs. Bourchier was alone with her husband. The doc- 
tor had left the house for a short time. He had other pa- 
tients to see. Another physician was soon expected from 


A CARDAVAL S'AV. 


295 

Hlacktown, also a trained nurse. Nothing could be done 
Hit to wait patiently. 

“ You are tired out, mother,” said Allan, tenderly. Let 
‘de take your place.” 

“ No ; go and dress yourself and have breakfast. I will 
Ivait here until the nurse comes.” 

Women never like to trust an invalid entirely to a man’s 
care, although men are often found who are as tender and 
careful nurses as women. So Allan went back to his room. 

He threw open the window. How beautiful and fresh 
everything looked ! How green the trees ! How at its 
very best the whole country ! What a glorious prospect ! 
Far away he could see the row of elm-trees which in that 
direction marked the boundary of the Redhills estate. It 
was a fair domain. Its owner should be a happy man. 
Yet how could he enjoy it, although now doubly his own, 
if he found it had been purchased by the blood of an inno- 
cent man ? The man whose grave, without a name upon 
the humble stone, lay under the spire of that church w'hose 
bells W'ere chiming so sweetly. Now, the fact of his father 
having gone to the expense of giving the dead and un- 
known man a decent grave was not without a certain sig- 
nificance. Allan sighed, shut the window, and drew down 
the blind — he could not look out without seeing the spire 
of the church, and tliinking of what lay so near to it. 

He was dressing himself when Steel knocked at the 
door and handed him a telegram. It had come by mes- 
senger from Longmere. A telegram sent to and from a 
provincial town on a Sunday morning is apt to be delayed 
on the road, when that road measures several miles. Allan 
took it from the servant’s hand with a grim smile. 

There was nothing he did not expect by this time. 
After the tricks fate had played liim, the news that Fran- 
ces had killed herself, Josephine had murdered Mrs. Mel- 
ville, or Mr. Melville had killed both his wife and his sister, 
would not have surprised him. He opened the yellow 
envelope prepared for the worst. 

From Josephine again — “ Frances very ill — brain fever — 
delirious. Come at once if possible. Doctor says no im- 
mediate danger.” 

“Not bad news, I hope, Mr. Allan?” said Steel, who had 
ventured to remain. 

“ My wife is very ill,” answered Allan, quietly, but in a 
dry, husky voice. Steel looked extremely sorry. 

Allan laid the telegram down on his dressing-table, and 


A CARDI.VAL SIM 


^oo 

tried to think. His father certainly dying at Redhills — 
his wife possibly dying in London. Under ordinary cir^ 
cu instances he would scarcely have hesitated. A mart’s 
wife has the first claim on him — a greater claim than either 
father or mother. His first impulse was to rush to town 
as quickly as he could ; but he remembered, being Sunday, 
there was no train to take him there until the evening. 
Even had there been one, .might he lose the hour when 
his father recovered his senses — an hour which might mean 
future happiness or misery to both himself and Frances. 
He felt thankful that for a while he w’as constrained to 
stay at Redhills. He thought of Frances’s curious manner 
when she left him at “ The Shrubbery ” yesterday evening. 
It had greatly troubled him until Josephine had informed 
him that she had gone to the theatre with Mrs. Melville. 
He felt he had neglected his wife, but the horrible tale told 
by Manders had driven almost everything else from his 
thoughts. He must stay at Redhills till the last moment. 

“ Has the messenger gone ?” he asked Steel. 

“No, sir. I thought he had better wait in case you 
wanted to telegraph.” 

Allan wrote a note to the postmaster at Longmere, beg- 
ging him to keep some one at the office all day at his ex- 
pense. He then ordered a groom to ride over in an hour’s 
time and wait for any more messages that might be sent. 
Then he answered Josephine’s telegram. He told her 
what she already knew, that Mr. Bourchier was seriously 
ill ; he begged her to telegraph the slightest change for 
worse with respect to Frances— to telegraph in time for 
him to catch the mail that night. Then he strove to resign 
himself to wait. 

All that day Mr. Bourchier remained without sense or 
motion. The Blacktown doctor shook his head and. e.x- 
pressed the gravest fears. But there was no immediate 
danger, and could the pressure on the brain be relieved, 
tlie patient would no doubt return to his senses. But 

even in that case he feared the worst. Should G , 

J , any one else be sent for ? He could see no use in 

doing so at present, unless it w;xs for the satisfaction of 
the family. He thought it better to wait until there was 
some evidence of a change about to take place. In his 
opinion Mr. Bourchier might lie for hours, even days, in 
the same condition. He was in good hands ; his friend, 
Hr. Brown, of Longmere, had done exactly as he should 
have done. By and by, if a great man is brought down 


A CANDJXAL SIX. 


301 

from London, you may be sure he will say that liis friend, 
Dr. Green, of Blacktown, has done everything, etc., etc. 
This is professional etiquette. 

Mabel was written to. A letter would reach her almost 
as soon as a telegram. The youngest son, Kenneth, was 
also bidden to come home. The truth is that both x\llan and 
his mother had from the very first felt certain that Mr. 
Bourchier would never again rise from his bed. They 
knew how ill he had been for the last two or three years — ■ 
how his constitution had been sapped and undermined. 
For many months Philip Bourchier’s friends had been 
telling one another that it was all up with him ; that death 
was written on the man’s face ; and other gloomy predic- 
tions. So it is scarcely to be wondered at that even those 
who loved him most gave up hope at once. 

In the afternoon another telegram came for Allan. 
This he tore open with feverish haste. Frances was no 
worse, but the fever was still at its height. No immediate 
danger. 

He could bear it no longer. The thought of his wife 
lying miles away — ill, delirious — almost drove him mad. 
See her and know the worst he must. Even if he returned 
by the next train he must go to town to-night. To-mor- 
row Mabel and Kenneth would be at Redhills, so his 
mother would have plenty of aid. Moreover, his father had 
not spoken. 

Praying that he might be at once apprised of any change, 
he went up to town by the mail, and found his wife with 
her rich hair shorn away, and ice laid upon her burning 
head. Found her crying for him. 

In a way she knew him. Her brilliant eyes turned ever 
to his. With her hot hand in his, or with his arm around 
her, she seemed quieter. If he moved from her side for a 
moment she was distressed, and the violence of her deli- 
rium increased. Ever and anon she prayed him to protect 
her, to save her from some awful fate. Hour after hour 
Allan sat by her side. Seeing her like this he could not 
believe that her life was not in imminent danger, although 
assured by the highest authorities that as yet there was 
nothing to tremble at. Josephine, who was longing to go 
to her father, stayed with them. It was the greatest self- 
sacrifice she had ever made. Perhaps it was the thought 
of the way in which she had wronged Frances by her sus- 
picions that nerved her to perform it. She would do what 
she could to atone, 


A CA TUD/^yi L SI y. 


3^2 

All day on Monday messages came from Redhills, each 
one in a similar strain. There was no change either for 
worse or better. Toward the evening the last one came. 
“ He is sensible — come if you can.” 

All the importance of seeing and speaking to his father 
came before Allan once more as he read it. Yes, he must 
go at all risks, at all cost to his own feelings. Was it a 
special mercy from Providence that about this time Fran- 
ces grew quieter ? — that she did not seem to be so needful 
of his presence — that he could even draw his hand from 
hers and leave the room without hearing her piteous cry 
of “Allan ! Allan! Allan!” 

Much as he regretted that imperative call which took 
him from his wife’s side at this moment, he dared not dis- 
obey it. Commending Frances to the care of Josephine 
and Mrs. Melville, he started for the west by the first train 
in the morning. He found that Mabel and his brother 
were at Redhills — that although Mr. Bourchier’s senses 
had returned to him, the doctors gave little hope that he 
would recover. 

“ Will you go to him at once, Allan?” asked his mother. 

“Yes, at once. Who is with him now ?” 

“ Mabel and the nurse. I will come up with you.” 

“No, I have something for his ear alone — something I 
must say. Ask them to leave him, if only for five min- 
utes.” 

“You will not say anything to vex him?” asked Mrs. 
Bourchier, anxiously. 

“ Not if I can help it? But what I have to say must be 
said. Tell everyone to leave his room.” 

Allan’s manner was so peremptory that poor Mrs. Bour- 
chier, whose custom it was to yield when commanded, fol- 
lowed his behest, and her son, with noiseless tread, passed 
through the door of the sick-room, and with a beating 
heart found himself alone with his father. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“truth dwells on dying lips.” 

Mr. Bourchier opened his eyes as Allan entered the 
room. Seeing who it w'as, a faint smile of welcome spread 
over his pale face. He was strong enough to return iir a 


A CARDI.VAL ShV. 


303 


perceptible manner the pressure of the young man’s fin- 
gers. He was propped up in his bed, so that when Allan 
kneeled beside him their heads were nearly level. He 
looked eagerly into his father’s face : it was calm and se- 
rene, hardly the face of a man who finds himself in his last 
moments tortured by remorse. 

“ I hope you feel better to-day, father,” said Allan. 

“Yes,” answered Mr. Bourchier, quietly; “I am better 
— but I am dying, my boy.” 

Allan bent his head and tried not to sob. 

“ I am glad you have come,” continued his father. “ I 
was afraid I should not see you again. Mabel is here, and 
Kenneth ; but I should like to see Josephine. Where is 
she ?” 

“She cannot leave my poor Frances, who is very ill. 
When I go back I will send her to you.” 

“ I dare say that will be too late, my boy. Frances ill, 
you said ? I should like to have seen her too,” he added, 
as if thinking aloud. 

Allan dreaded the ordeal before him. The idea of 
troubling his father’s last hours with the question he must 
ask was terrible. He only brought himself to the point by 
thinking that a man meeting death as calmly as Mr.‘ Bour- 
chier could have nothing to trouble his conscience. The 
question must be asked ; and as he looked at that quiet, 
white face, his heart leaped as he guessed that the answer 
would be an entire denial. 

He kneeled for a few moments longer in silence, ever 
holding his father’s hand in his own ; then he leaned for- 
ward until his lips were close to the dying man’s ear. 

“ Father,” he whispered, “ I have something to ask you. 
Forgive me asking it at such a moment ; but my happiness 
and my wife’s happiness depend upon it.” 

Had he been looking into his father’s face he would 
have seen a startled expression flash into the eyes. Could 
he have read his father’s thoughts he would have known 
that Philip Bourchier was crying in spirit — “At last, at 
last ; when I hoped to die and carry the secret of the crime 
with me.” 

But he said not a word, although he knew what Allan’s 
question would be. He neither encouraged nor forbade. 
He saw that the sword was about to fall, and lying there 
with his life ebbing away, his strong, keen mind was cast- 
ing about for a means to mitigate the wound it made. Not 
for his own sake— he cared nothing for that — but for the 


304 ^ CAI^DINA L SIJV. 

sake of Allan ; for the sake of Frances ; for the sak6, 
though to a lesser extent, of his wife and other children. 
He said not a word, but the weak clasp tightened round 
his son’s fingers. Then Allan spoke again. 

“ Father, it is only to hear you deny it, and set my mind 
at rest, I ask you. That man — the man you killed that 
night — did you know his name — who he was — what his 
death or life meant to us all ; and oh, — God ! forgive me 
for asking you ! — did yon shoot him thinking he was but a 
ruffian, who liad designed to rob and murder you ? Tell 
me, for my whole life hangs on your answer!” 

It was out — a moment would decide all. The tension 
on Allan’s nerves was so great that he buried his face in 
the pillow beside his father’s and sobbed convulsively. 

Yet Philip Bourchier spoke not. Allan felt the clasp of 
his fingers relax, and then, lifting his head, he looked at 
him. To his horror and dismay his father lay, to all ap- 
pearances, senseless, as when he had seen him for the first 
time after his sudden illness. 

“ Father! father ! — speak ! ” he cried passionately ; but 
not a sound came from Philip Bourchier’s pale lips. Allan 
groaned — the question was unanswered. Could he hope 
to have the chance of repeating it ? Could he dare to do 
so if the opportunity came again ? 

He called for aid and then left the room. Hour after 
hour he paced up and down the library — the most un- 
happy man on earth. He dared not leave the house. He 
dared not return to town. He must, for the sake of honor, 
for the sake of all, have an answer to that question. And 
the remainder of that day passed, and morning broke once 
more, but Philip Bourchier gave no sign, although the 
doctors did not think he was unconscious all the time. 
The case in this latter stage was puzzling them terribly. 

The only gleam of sunshine that fell upon Allan was 
Josephine’s morning telegram, which told him that Frances 
was decidedly better. There was an abatement of fever. 
She was much quieter and was now sleeping. Glad as he 
was to have this good news, under the present circum- 
stances he was more than thankful, as it enabled him to 
stay at Redhills without going quite mad with the fear of 
his wife dying in London. 

Yet all that time, while Allan waited for consciousness 
to return to his father, that father was as conscious as the 
son himself. At any moment during those long dreary 
hours he could have spoken as intelligibly as ever he 


A CARDI,YAL Siy. 


305 


spoke in his life. He was living through all that life again 
— through all its sorrows, joys, successes, failures, and sins 
— culminating in the heartless and carefully calculated 
crime which had utterly wrecked it. A ghost of his old 
satirical smile played on his lips as he thought he had 
been punished sufficiently for it in this world. Did the 
terrors of the next life appeal to him ? — perhaps. He 
knew he was dying. In a few days, if not liours, he would 
be judged for his crime, and he felt that, having never at- 
tempted to excuse it even to himself, whatever the consti- 
tution of that Highest Tribunal be, he must fare ill. Philip 
Bourchier was dying one of those rare deaths, in which the 
mind lasts clear and workable almost to the very end — not, 
as is usual, mind and body keeping step on the last mile 
or two of life’s journey. A more terrible death for a man 
with such a crime on his conscience cannot be imagined. 

He lay there hour after hour looking death in the face 
and by the force of his strong will defying its terrors, or 
the terrors death is usually supposed to present to sinners. 
Yet there was one he could not shrink from — could not 
defy. He groaned as he thought of his son’s future hap- 
piness wrecked by his crime. His one burning eager wish 
was to avoid this, How was it to be done ? H he died 
and made no sign would not the doubt be as distressing as 
the certainty ? Would not the very manner in which he 
had received Allan’s appeal confirm Manders’s tale ? Pie 
well knew the information could only have reached his son 
through that one channel. 

Toward morning a change came over him. It may have 
been that in one direction his mind was growing weaker. 
Anyway, the thought of a future state grew more and 
more engrossing — more and more fearful. Old dogmas 
cast aside with childhood ; old lessons as to the ultimate 
consequences of right and wrong ; old faith as to the ex- 
istence of eternity, came back to him with painful force 
and distinctness. "Half skeptical as he had ever been, he 
could not believe that such a deed as his was done with 
forever, when his eyes should close to open no more. 
Often it is to the most criminal and the most miserable 
that the future existence seems most indisputable. The 
criminal, because it is but logical he shall be punished for 
his earthly crimes — the miserable, because he feels that he 
ought to have some recompense hereafter for the wretched 
life he has led. 

But perhaps, with the approach of death, other thoughts 
20 


3o6 a cardinal sin. 

not based so much on self came to Mr. Bourchier. Per- 
liaps, as the watches of the night went by, the treachery, 
the cruelty, the selfishness of the cold-blooded murder^ 
came vividly before him. Perhaps a better nature lying 
hitherto dormant at last awoke. Perhaps, for the first 
time, he regretted the act itself, and felt that if he were 
standing this moment alone with John Boucher on that 
deserted road, that although certain the deed would be 
known to no one, suspected by no one, he would not do it ; 
even to confirm himself and his children in the possession 
of Redhills. 

Who can tell — doctor, priest, or weeping friend — what 
is a true death-bed penitence ? Who can say what it is 
worth, or how much of it is simply the outcome of the 
fear of death ? Whether the man who makes confession 
with a contrite heart, the throbs of which he knows to be 
numbered, would not, if by a miracle restored to health, 
live again the life he has always lived ? It is well for us 
that it is not our province to decide on this point. It is 
well that it is not the dying man’s province to decide. It 
is well that he can die feeling that the evil of a lifetime 
has been forgiven during those hours he lay waiting for 
the end. Read, if you care to, about the last moments 
spent on earth by the next murderer who is to he hanged 
for his crime. Read how the chaplain attends and ex- 
horts him ; how he receives the sacrament just before the 
noose is adjusted ; liow he says he is ready. for death ; how 
he confesses his crime, and writes, the njjlght before the 
execution, a pious letter to his mother, father, or some 
one he loves. Often, as I read about these penitent and 
saved felons, it seems to me that murder is the shortest 
way to heaven. Yet I wonder how would it be with them 
if a full pardon arrived just as the ropes were round their 
necks. Yes, it is well and it is merciful to us that we can 
believe in the efficacy of repentance at the last moment ; 
can believe it is freely given, not wrung from us. 

It was toward morning that the full strength of this 
feeling came over Mr. Bourchier — the desire to make his 
peace with heaven. To confess his great crime to some- 
one ; to a clergyman — even to the daughter of the mur- 
dered man. To humble himself and entreat her forgive- 
ness. To die after having heard those words of pardon. 
To be able, if hereafter he must face his victim’s accus- 
ing eyes, to say to him, “ She has forgiven ; cannot you 
forgive also, and, it may be, plead for me, your murderer.’' 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


307 


Every moment his desire grew stronger, until it reached 
to a passionate longing. 

His change of mood had been a sudden one ; but it en- 
dured. He dared not die with this weight upon his mind ; 
yet he might, he knew, die at any moment. If lie was to 
make confession, not a minute must be lost. So com- 
pletely did this idea pervade him that he turned on his 
pillow, resolved without delay to make his wishes known 
to the watchers. He would summon the rector of Redton, 
a man who had known him from his earliest years. He 
would be the fitting person to receive his confession — to 
hold out what hope of forgiveness he could. He would 
have sent for his son’s wife, but Allan had told him she 
was ill. He could not hope to live long enough to see 
her. The rector must bear her his message ; he must tell 
her everything — tell them all everything. 

The nurses, who saw his movement, were at his side in 
a moment. The words he wished to speak were trembling 
on his lips, when the consequences of what he was about 
to do flashed before him, and Philip Bourchier closed his 
eyes again and sunk back, knowing that the comfort vouch- 
safed to the greatest criminal — repentance and confession 
— was denied to him. The crown of his punishment was 
at hand. 

Never in the flush of health had his reasoning powers 
seemed clearer ; never had the deductions they drew ap- 
peared more logical ; never had the affection and honor of 
ins children been valued more dearly ; never had their 
happiness and well-being ranked more paramount. Yet, 
for tlie sake of himself, he was going to throw a blight on 
their lives — to condemn Allan and the wife he loved to be 
unable hereafter to look into each other’s eyes without 
thinking that one’s father was the murderer, the other 
one’s the victim. How, under such circumstances, could 
love exist between them ? And Mabel, Kenneth, Jose- 
phine, his wife — what a cloud would be cast on all their 
lives ! Cast by the last words of the father and husband 
they had always loved and honored — a man who could find 
nerve enough to do a deed of treachery to which there was 
scarcely a parallel — a coward who could not, most likely 
from the fear of death, die keeping his own counsel. 

He remembered, as he lay there, how years and years 
ago, without a thought of the danger he was incurring, he 
had saved two of his children from what seemed certain 
death. How little he had recked his own life when it was 


3 o 8 a CARDIjVAL SIN. 

a question of saving theirs. How often he had told him- 
self he could make any sacrifice for their sakes. Yet, now 
it came to the test, now when his own act had placed him 
in such a position that he must sacrifice that burning, de- 
vouring desire to ease his mind by confessing the sin which 
weighed upon it, he hesitated. How little Philip Bourchier 
thought, when he took those minute precautions to hide all 
evidence of his crime, that the hour would come when his 
greatest wish, so far as his own peace of mind was con- 
cerned, would be to reveal it, in all its blackness, to the 
whole world, if necessary. 

It could not be. For the sake of the living, confession 
was out of the question. He only knew how he repented ; 
but of what use was repentance without its natural se- 
quence, confession ? And he was doomed to die silent. 

Then strange and fine-drawn fancies seized him. Men 
had been known — ^^many men — who had sacrificed them- 
selves physically for the sake of those they loved. He 
could have done it without a second thought. But had 
there ever been one known who was willing to make a 
spiritual sacrifice to bring about the welfare of others ? — 
who in his last moments had deliberately cut away what 
slight chance he may have had of forgiveness ? — who had 
endeavored to atone for a crime he repented of, not by 
sacrificing worldly goods, or his body, but by something 
outweighing all earthly considerations — his soul ? This 
curious idea possessed him and clung to him with extraor- 
dinary tenacity. He worked the problem out over and 
over again ; looked at it in every light until he began to 
wonder if this was the atonement really demanded. That, 
haply, it was ordained that he alone, the guilty one, was to 
be the only sufferer. That if he could nerve himself to 
leave this life without a shred of hope to cling to, the pun- 
ishment would be complete. He was not to pay the ma- 
terial penalty demanded from nearly every murderer. The 
sentence passed upon him was of a higher, more intellect- 
ual, and, to a man in his present state of mind, far, far 
more awful kind than human lips could decree. 

A grim purpose formed itself within his active brain, the 
very existence of which in a dying man’s thoughts should 
make one shudder, although it bore no evil to any save 
himself. But could he carry it put ? Could he, when the 
moment came, command himself sufficiently ? He be- 
lieved he could die silent — could, if needful, lie from now 
until the death agony seized him without letting a word 


A CAND/XAL S/X. 


309 


pass his lips. But, in order that any benefit might be 
reaped from what his reasoning, had persuaded him was 
the means offered him of saving those lie loved, he must 
do more, far more, tlian keep silence. He believed he 
would be equal to tlie act he premeditated, and endeavored 
to gather up his waning strength for the effort. 

No doubt these hours and hours of acute thought were 
telling upon him, as shortly after he had formed his reso- 
lution his mind must have slightly wandered. The turn 
it took was to bring a phantom of a thickset man to his 
bedside — a man whom he had never seen but once in his 
lifetime. No looker-on would have noticed his lips mov- 
ing, but to Mr. Bourchier it seemed that he was talking to 
his ghostly visitor — that he pleaded for pardon, or at least 
that his crime might die with him. He thought that at 
last he said to the phantom, “ It is as much for your 
daughter’s sake as for the sake of my own children I am 
going to do this — going to renounce every hope.” And 
as he spoke he seemed to feel that he was speaking the 
solemn truth. 

But this visitor of his own creation answered not. Yet 
Mr. Bourchier shuddered as he met his eyes and read 
there only one expression — not triumph, vengeance, hate, 
or even forgiveness, but pity, deep, hopeless pity, for the 
man who pleaded to him. And with that shudder it 
seemed to Mr. Bourchier that his mind regained its 
balance and took up the thread of his purpose, while the 
phantom faded from his sight. 

The time he had lain like this, really insensible, had 
been longer than he thought. He opened his eyes and 
found his wife standing over him. She put her lips to his 
and kissed him. 

“ Tell me the time,” he said in a whisper. 

It was four o’clock in the afternoon. He knew by the 
hour that he had been insensible again, and the next attack 
of that kind might be the end of everything ! He also 
knew that his bodily strength was leaving him. 

“ Give me brandy,” he said. 

The stimulant was given. 

“ Send Allan here,” was his next command. “ Leave 
him alone witlvme.” 

“Not if he agitates you, dear,” said Mrs. Bourchier. 
“ Nothing shall trouble you now. I will not allow it.” 

“ Send Allan to me,” he reiterated. “ I have something 
to say to him — to him alone.” 


310 


A CARD/.VAL ShV. 


Mrs. Bourchier rose to obey. She had obeyed him all 
her lifetime, why should she cease doing so now ? As she 
left the room he recalled her. 

“Let the others come first, but only for a moment, to 
wish me good-bv — and, Adelaide, wish me good-by your- 
self.” 

She kissed him with tears streaming down her cheeks ; 
then she went to summon Mabel and Kenneth. 

Their interview with their father was a very short one ; 
in a minute or two they were dismissed, and Allan, with a 
face as pale as his father’s, stood by the side of the bed. 

“ Are we alone ? ” asked Mr. Bourchier. 

“ Yes,” answered Allan, kneeling beside him ; “ we are 
quite alone.” 

“Allan,” said Mr. Bourchier, calmly, “death is near- 
very near me now.” 

The son took the father’s hand and pressed it. The state- 
ment was such sad truth that he could not contradict it. 

“You asked me -some question yesterday, my boy. I 
fainted, I think, while you were speaking ; but I believe 
it was something of importance. If so, ask me again, be- 
fore it is too late.” 

Allan’s throat felt so dry he could scarcely gasp out the 
words he must speak. 

“ Oh, father ! tell me if you knew the name of that man 
— that man you killed ! ” 

Mr. Bourchier drew a quick breath ; well as he knew 
the question he was to be asked, fully prepared as he was 
to meet it, no forewarning could quite take away its sting. 
But his voice, as he replied, was calmer, if feebler, than 
his son’s. 

“ I learned it — long afterward. I learned it from the 
villain who palmed himself off as his son and my cousin.” 

Allan’s heart leaped. “ You knew nothing of his claim 
— of his right to Redhills ? ” he asked. 

“ Nothing. To me he was but a midnight thief. I shot 
him, as I thought, to save my own life, Allan.” 

Could any son doubt the dying words of his father ? 
Yet he must ask something more. 

“ Did you know that Frances was his daughter ?” 

“Not until quite recently. That wretch who told me 
who he was, who swore he himself was the man’s son, in- 
formed me a short time ago.” 

“Who is that man? How did he ever come here?'* 
asked Allan. 


A CARDmAL sm. 


3 ” 


He came with papers which seemed to prove his iden- 
tity. He knew in some way that the man was John Bou- 
cher. Allan, at first I believed him. When I discovered 
the imposture, it was too late — he had married Josephine.” 

“ But even then,” urged Allan. 

“ Even then. Tell me, Allan, what thought it was 
urged you to come here in hot haste— what keeps you 
here now ? Why my answers to your questions were of 
such vital importance ? ” 

Allan was silent. He was now ashamed that he had for 
a moment believed in the possibility of such a crime lying 
at his father’s door. 

“ I will tell you,” said Mr. Bourchier. In some way you 
heard this fellow’s talc ; you saw what John Boucher’s 
death meant to me and to all of us ; and you dreaded lest 
in a moment of temptation I had committed a foul crime. 
Is it so?” 

Allan bowed his head in shame. How he had wronged 
his father ! The wdiole affair had been a terrible accident, 
not a crime. 

“ Give me more brandy,” said Mr. Bourchier; his strength 
was fast ebbing. Allan gave him the brandy — its effects 
were almost instantaneous. “ I have been weak, of course,” 
said Mr. Bourchier, more firmly, “but if you, my own son, 
can suspect, what would it have been with others ? This 
impostor has traded on my weakness. I have tolerated 
and bribed him instead of denouncing him. Now listen, 
Allan — it may be to my last words. You will believe a 
dying man ” 

As he spoke the sound of carriage-wheels was heard 
outside — some one had arrived in hot haste. Perhaps 
Josephine — the only one of his children he had not seen. 
If so, he must see her at once. 

“Look out and see who it is, Allan,” said the dying man 
eagerly. 

Allan obeyed. It was not Josephine who stepped out of 
the carriage — it was her husband, Digby Bourchier, or 
George Manders. Allan was firmly resolved that this mis- 
creant should not vex his father’s last moments. 

“ It is not Josephine,” he said quietly, returning to his 
station near the bed. 

“Who is it? — tell me,” said Mr. Bourchier. Allan was 
silent. 

“Is it Josephine’s husband? — that cheat; that im- 
postor ! ” 


312 


A CARDINAL SIN. 

There was^such eagerness, almost pleasure in his mam 
ner, that Allan felt he must tell the truth. A strange smile 
crept over the dying man’s face, a smile which might have 
been a triuniphant one had not the situation precluded 
such a possibility. Every thing seemed to be arranged ac- 
cording to the subtle theory he had devised as he lay for 
so long apparently unconscious. It may even be that the 
thought of defeating his foe at the last moment brought a 
certain amount of comfort to Mr. Bourchier, 

“Allan,” he said, “raise me up in the bed. Then bring 
him up^liere. He has come at the right moment ; he was 
never welcome until now. Let him stand before me, and 
mark him quail at the truth. Go down and bring him 
here, or he will not be allowed to enter the house.” 

The desire was so plainly expressed that Allan could not 
hesitate. He went down to the liall and found Steel at 
the front door, prepared to contest the visitor’s passage. 

Manders started and fell back as he saw Allan — he had 
no wish to feel the strength of his arm again. Allan 
threw the door open and waved Steel aside. 

“ Come in,” he said quietly ; “ my father wishes to see 
you at once.” 

Manders was much disconcerted at hearing this an- 
nouncement. Although he came down to Redhills deter- 
mined at all hazards to force his way into Mr. Bourchier’s 
presence, he did not like this absence of opposition. He 
had lieard at Brackley that he was very ill, but had no idea 
his life was in such jeopardy. 

“ Come,” said Allan fiercely, as he noticed his hesitation, 
“ come, or it will be worse for you.” 

He knew that. It would be much worse for him unless 
he saw Mr. Bourchier to-day. That forged bill was at the 
first of its days of grace. Unless he could take a thousand 
pounds back to town with him, things might go very badly 
with George Manders. So he followed Allan without a 
word ; promising himself that once in Mr. Bourchier’s 
presence he could in some way gain his ends. All the 
same he blamed himself bitterly for having for vengeful 
reasons revealed certain things to Allan. But most likely 
Mr. Bourchier was still in ignorance as to the extent of 
Allan’s information. 

“ Not that man, Allan ! ” said Mrs. Bourchier piteously, 
as she saw her son conducting Manders to the sick- 
room. 

“ My father wishes it,” said Allan shortly but decisively, 


A CARDINAT. SRV. 


313 

as he held the door open and followed Manders into the 
cliamber. 

The villain started and turned pale as he became aware 
of Mr. Bourchier’s condition. Vet he noted that he was 
sensible. There might be time to get what he wanted. 
He walked round to one side of the bed, while Allan stood 
at the other. He carried a strong odor of ardent spirits 
into the room with him, and no wonder, as since the time 
Allan left him he had scarcely been sober an hour. It was 
only the imperative nature of the case which brought him 
to Redhills in a presentable condition at the present 
moment. “Sorry to see you so bad, Mr. Bourchier,” he 
said, with a clumsy attempt at appearing at his ease. “ I 
am sorry to bother you, but I have come upon a bit of 
business which won’t admit of delay.” 

“ No,” said Mr. Bourchier, looking him full in the face, 
and speaking with a distinctness and power which sur- 
prised Allan. “No; you are here to listen to the last 
words — the dying words I am going to speak to my son.. 
Listen ; for they may concern you.” 

“Oh, I say — ” stammered Manders. 

“ Don’t dare to interrupt me, I am dying.” The speaker 
threw such a glance on his son-in-law that he quailed and 
felt shrinking within himself. He could not find another 
word to say. Mr. Bourchier turned to Allan and took his 
hand. 

“Allan,” he said, “remember this. I have been weak, 
and fearing how I should be condemned for an accident, 
have yielded much in order to keep that man’s tongue 
silent. When I shot John Boucher I had no idea as to 
who he was or what he claimed. To the best of my belief 
he meant to assault me. I may have made a mistake — I 
may have acted too hastily. If so, I have paid dearly for 
my error. This man has traded on my fears. He has 
wrung money from me and would wring more. Defy him, 
Allan — make no compact with him. He is an impostor 
and a liar. I killed John Boucher in self-defence. It 
was an accident. No thought of who he was — no thought 
of crime was in my heart. These are my last words — I 
swear to their truth on the — oath — of — a — dying — man.” 

It was over. His strength had not failed him. His pur- 
pose was accomplished. He had found resolution enough 
to frame his last words into a lie. But it was a lie that 
saved Allan. Every suspicion was swept away from his 
mind. Had the least one lingered it would have been dis- 


314 A CAJ^DINAL SIA',_ 

pelled fis he saw th6 appearance of George Manders. He 
was white and trembling— such an ending as this to his 
plots had never occurred to him as being possible. Wretch 
as he was, his blood ran cold at the words he had heard. 
Mr. Bourchier was a greater man than himself. He could 
not have done this thing. 

“ Is he dead ? ”*he stammered, with fear and awe in his 
face. 

Allan heard him, and dropping his father’s hand, rose 
and came toward him. 

“Go,” he said, with a look on his face which told what a 
refusal would entail. 

“ He has lied — died with a lie on liis lips,” said Manders. 

Allan’s eyes blazed. The sanctity of the sick-chamber 
and Manders’s hasty retreat were the only two things that 
kept him from proceeding to extremities. He sent the 
nurse to his father, and accompanied Manders until he 
saw him inside the carriage which had brought him to 
Redhills. Then he looked through the window, and said 
in a voice which made the occupant shudder — 

“My wife is dangerously ill. If anything happens you 
know what I will do to you.” 

The carriage drove off, and Allen returned to his father. 

Mr. Bourchier was not dead — yet he prophesied truly 
when he said those words would be his last. For some 
days life lingered, but not again did a syllable pass his 
lips. The watchers could not say whether he was con- 
scious or unconscious. He had done aU he had nerved 
himself to do — far more than dying in silence. After that 
solemn and stupendous lie, which had made even the hard- 
ened villain stand aghast, why should a man want to speak 
again in this world ? 

So when after two or three days Philip Tremaine Bour- 
chier died — and died with apparently little pain — those 
words still remained his last ones. 


CHAPTER XXVir. 

JOSEPHINE IS FREED. 

George Manders, after his departure from Redhills, told 
the driver to take him to the Redlon Inn. He dismissed 
his conveyance and bespoke a bedroom and a sitting-room. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


3^5 


He must stay in the neighborhood until Mr. Bourchier's 
death made it certain that his plots must be at an end. 
To no one else could he turn for money — the very furni- 
ture in the house at Shepherd’s Bush was settled upon his 
wife. Even if he could borrow money upon it the amount 
would be too small to be of any service. For the first 
time, flight, bootyless flight, entered into his head. He 
Avas not exactly sure as to the very day on which the 
forged bill would become due, nor was he clear as to what 
steps would be taken when its true nature was discovered. 
His great hope was that Mr. Bourchier would recover, or 
even partially recover, from his illness. He could not be- 
lieve he was so near to death. He could not have spoken 
like that if he had thought of dying. What a good plucky 
one he was, after all — what a lie he had told ! For a mo- 
ment Mr. Manders felt almost indignant at the success of 
falsehood. Or he may have felt like the eagle struck down 
by the arrow feathered from its own plumage. 

He must stay near Redhills as long as possible. He de- 
cided this over a glass of strong brandy-and-water, and 
ratified that decision over many more. So he stayed at the 
Redtoninn, and having nothing else to do, while waiting 
events, drank all day long. He had now got past the stage 
where liquor sends its votary senseless under the table. 
He could even continue drinking until he greAV what may, 
in a complimentary sense, be called sober again. In fact, 
the next warning the brandy would give him would come 
in the guise of delirium tremens. 

Meanwhile Allan had been to town. He had found 
Frances so much better that he was able to return the 
next day to Redhills, bringing Josephine with him. She 
was in time to see her father alive, but not to receive the 
farewell which he had, on a previous occasion, given to the 
others. She stayed at Redhills butafew hours, then tore 
herself away, not liking to leave Frances for longer. Allan 
was very grateful to her. Although all danger had gone 
by, he longed to be with his wife ; but knowing all he 
knew, it seemed to him it was his duty to stay at Redhills. 
He was perfectly aware that Josephine’s husband had 
taken up his abode at the Redton Inn, and feared to leave 
the neighborhood while Manders continued there. 

It was the third day after Mr. Bourchier had spoken 
those important words that a clerk from the Westshire 
Bank, Longmere Branch, called at Redhills, and asked to 
see Mr. Bourchier, or, failing him, Mr. Allan, He was the 


37 6 A CAJ^DnVAL ^/.Y. 

bearer of a bill accepted, ostensibly, by Mr. Bourchier, and 
payable in London to the order of Digby Bourchier. It 
was due the day before, and as no funds had been deposited 
to meet it, and as Mr. Digby Bourchier’s banking account 
had nothing to place against it, it liad been sent down for 
presentation to the acceptor. Allan examined it. The 
forgery was palpable. 

“That is not my father’s signature,” he said; “it is 
forged.” 

A fierce delight swept through him. Retribution was 
coming on the rascal. He need lift neither hand nor foot 
— others would see to it ail. George Manders would have 
the pleasure of spending the next year or two in fitting 
company. 

“ It is a forgery,” he said, “ and forged by the drawer, 
whose right name is George Manders, and who is at this 
moment staying at the Redton Inn.” 

The bank clerk left and telegraphed the news to Lon- 
don. 

The next morning, waiting at Sleeford Junction for the 
Brackley train, was a gentleman who had in his pocket a 
document which would necessitate George Manders bear- 
ing him company back to town. 

It happened that on this particular morning Mr. Man- 
ders had grown nervous and uneasy. He did not think 
events would have marched so quickly, but he felt it be- 
hooved him to be careful. Mr. Bourchier, he had learned, 
still lingered on in the same hopeless condition — oblivious 
to promissory notes or acceptances, whether rightly or 
wrongly drawn. From Allan he had no mercy to expect. 
In fact, the game was all but up. He dare not linger at 
Redton any longer. To-morrow it might be too late. 
Fortunately he had two or three hundred pounds left in 
his pocket-book. He must fly and try to strike out a fresh 
career. Once safe in a land where there were no extradi- 
tion treaties, he could look round and try to better him- 
self. He could threaten Allan just as well by letter as by 
word of mouth. So it was that, at the very moment the 
gentleman from London was waiting at Sleeford Junction 
for the Brackley train, Mr. Manders was on the same plat- 
form waiting for the train to take him to Blacktown ; and 
he saw the gentleman from London. 

Attliis particular time Mr. Manders was keeping as sharp 
a lookout for strangers as his besotted senses would al- 
low, Moreover, he had seen this stranger’s face before. 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


317 


Fot* a while he could not remember where. It was not 
until he had watched him enter the Brackley train that his 
mind grew clear upon this point. It was a remarkable 
face, ratiier an unfortunate one for a member of his pro- 
fession to be gifted with. Once seen, it was impressed on 
a man’s memory. As the train whirled it away, Mr. Man- 
ders remembered where he had seen it, and remembered 
to whom it belonged. He felt truly thankful he had 
been so cautious — that he had left Redton without paying 
his inn bill and without his portmanteau. He would now 
be able to baffle pursuit. If needful he might lie hidden 
for days in a large town like Blacktown. But the best 
plan would be to start for his destination at once. The 
innkeeper, in tlie face of his unpaid bill and unremoved 
luggage, would inform the gentleman from London that 
his guest would certainly return ere long ; and the gentle- 
man from London would wait — w’ait perhaps until late at 
night. Oh, yes, he had plenty of time. 

Spain must be his destination. He had looked into the 
matter, in case of painful contingencies, and settled that 
years ago. Blacktown being a large seaport, he might 
find a steamer sailing from there that very day for Spain. 
If not, he must go elsewhere. 

Nevertheless, he felt strangely out of sorts and craving 
for stimulant when he reached Blacktown. It was a crav- 
ing easily supplied. Having for the time stilled it, he 
\vent to work to make inquiries. He felt there was no 
need to be too particular ; if he could not get aw^ay at 
once, the chance w'as he would be compelled to stay. So 
he walked boldly down to the quays and inquired at a 
shipping agent’s if a steamer left to-day for Spain. He 
found there w’as none. His disappointment w'as very 
great, and he needed several doses of his indispensable 
medicine to bring him into working order again. At times 
he felt very queer, and dashed his hand across his eyes as 
though he wished to banish sights which ever and anon 
came before them. Once or twice he stopped dead in the 
street and shivered as he waited for something wdiich he 
felt must remove itself from his path before he could pro- 
ceed. Still more brandy — it was the only cure for his 
complaint. 

Now came the question : Should he lie hidden in Black- 
town until the next steamer left for the Peninsula ? Could 
he risk it ? He thought not. He was sure to be traced. 
He liad noticed that people looked at him curiously as 


A CARDhVAL S/A: 


318 

they answered his inquiries. He must try elsewhere. 
Then the large Welsh seaport — in many things Blacktovvn’s 
rival — came to his mind. The idea pleased iiim. He liad 
never heard of a fugitive being looked after there. Liver- 
pool seemed to be the port where all were caught. To 
Carport he would go. 

But, if he must leave traces, he would leave them in 
Blacktown only. Some things were indispensable to him 
for his voyage. He went to the various shops and bought 
them — bought a large portmanteau and packed tliem into. 

All this took up time ; so, when he had visited a barber’s 
and had his mustache shaved off, when he had effected a 
few other changes in his appearance, the day was gone 
and the dusk of evening creeping on. By the time he 
stepped out of the train at the pier, from whicli a part of 
the journey must be performed by water, it was quite dark. 
He could not hope to leave Carport to-night ; to-morrow 
he must trust in his luck. He walked down the uncom- 
fortable wooden steps till he reached the landing-stage. 
The wind was blowing very hard, and the steamer was 
tossing up and down. Sailors were standing each side of 
the railed gangwav to assist passengers on board. 

“Now, sir, be smart!” cried one of them, as Manders 
paused at the entrance to the gangway and gave a slight 
scream. 

There, in front of him, was one of those horrors he had 
seen several times to-day. He could not move a step until 
the ghastly thing was out of his path. He was endeavor- 
ing to find words to explain his dilemma when the sailors 
lost patience with him, and, seeing he was stopping the 
throng of passengers behind him, took him firmly by the 
arms and half-led, half-forced him along the narrow way. 
He sunk, pale and shivering, upon the nearest seat. Never 
in the course of his life had he felt like this. He had sense 
enough to attribute his strange feelings to the right cause, 
but under present conditions was compelled to have re- 
course to the assistance of the foe to enable him to con- 
tinue the combat at all. In a few minutes he staggered 
to his feet and found the way instinctively to the saloon. 

There was a little knot of persons in front of the drink- 
ing-bar, several of whom looked askance at the tall young 
man with wild eyes who pushed his way to the front and 
demanded brandy. They watched him drink the modicum 
of spirit without troubling to augment the dilution it had 
already undergone at the various hands it had passed 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


3^9 

through until it reached the consumer’s. They watched 
him turn away, then turn back again and d^^mand another 
dose of the so-called neat spirit. He swallowed this as 
quickly as the first, then went up the companion ladder to 
the deck. 

“ Rum-looking beggar,” said one of the passengers, fol- 
lowing him with his eyes ; “ seems to like his liquor, don’t 
he?” 

“ Blue-ribbon man, repenting of his errors and making 
up for lost time,” suggested another. 

“ Blue-devil man. I’m thinking, indeed,” said a third, a 
doctor returning to the principality, who betrayed his 
origin by the intonation of the word “indeed.” “He is 
not far, indeed, I should say, from D. T.” 

Had the doctor known that for the last two or three 
nights the man Avho had just left the cabin had been un- 
able to sleep a wink ; that for the last two or three days 
he had been loathing the sight 6f food ; had he been able 
to connect these facts with the pale, dirty-looking face and 
startled but lustreless eyes, he would most likely have left 
the cabin and followed the stranger on deck. Even as it 
was he might have done so, had he not known that an im- 
pending attack of the disease he expressed by two letters 
is very, very rarely accompanied by a craving for drink ; 
and this young man had swallowed his brandy as if his 
existence depended upon it. So Dr. Morgan Evans sat 
still in the cabin, and, in spite of the frightful example he 
had just seen, consented to his own glass being refilled, 
as a token of good-fellowship between himself and a 
friendly patient who was crossing the Severn in the same 
boat. 

Manders went on deck and found the last truckful of 
luggage had been lowered by the lift ; that the great loops 
of the strong hawsers were slipped from the short sturdy 
posts which went through them ; that the paddle-wheels 
were revolving and striking the first blows of the fight they 
had to make against wind and tide ; that the boat’s head 
was swinging round and pointing toward the opposite 
coast, but a long, long way above the lights it meant to get 
to eventually, for the wind was blowing strongly from the 
northwest and the tide was about half-ebb. 

If you know what a half-ebb spring tide over the Sev- 
ern Shoots is, you will understand why the boat’s head 
pointed far above that row of lights. If you do not know, 
go to the ferry at the right time, get down to the land- 


320 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


ing-stage, and watch the brown water rushing down — 
watch it whirling and curling into eddies, striking oflf 
from each of the great wooden piles which form the pier. 
Throw your hat, your stick, or, what will do as well and 
be less inconvenient, your newspaper,, on to the stream. 
It goes out of sight like an express train, and you are 
able to get an idea of what the Severn tide is. If you go 
there later on the ebb, you will see a little way down the 
river the black, sea-bottle-covered rocks known as the 
Shoots sticking their villanous heads above water. Per- 
haps not so villanous after all. If navigation was at- 
tended by no difficulties like these, pilots would be su- 
perfluous ; and there are many honest, brave, sober men 
who keep wives and little ones by piloting ships up and 
down the broad but deceptive stream. 

Oh, there is a rare fine tide in the Severn. Things may 
be improved now, but years ago it was a merry sight to 
go up to Sharpness and watch the vessels coming into the 
lock — the lock which gives access to the Gloucester Ca- 
nal, and which stands almost at right angles to the stream. 
Such pulling, hauling, and general excitement if the tide 
was flowing at all fast. It was touch-and-go then. Unless 
the right moment was seized, or if the wheel was given 
a turn too many or too few, the chances were that the 
luckless brig, schooner, or whatever rig the craft might 
be, was floating broadside up the stream, making all 
haste to let go anchor and avoid stranding on the sands 
above, leaving the minor detail of a bowsprit or jibboom 
snapped off like a carrot to be seen to at a more con- 
venient time. 

It is a merry stream that broad Severn ; a fantastic 
stream. Leaving out of the question the temporary mad- 
ness which shows itself in the shape of “ bores,” it plays 
other curious pranks. A man who had a house on its banks 
thought that a barge filled with stones and sunk opposite 
liis front door would afford some protection to his boats. 
Rightfully or wrongfully, he carried out his idea, and the 
consequence was the Severn thought fit to transfer several 
miles of sand from the opposite coast to the coast on which 
the sunken barge lay. Whether this was considered an 
advantage or a disadvantage I have never heard. 

Then the tide does not run straight down through the 
channel. It goes out of the direct line to scour all round the 
shore, and, as the authorities say, keep the Roads, where 
large ships used to lie for weeks waiting foi a wind, fit 


A CAJ^DI.YAL Siy. 


321 


for anchorage — keeps the mouth of another smaller but 
scarcely less important river from silting up. So that, af- 
ter all, there may be method in its madness. 

1 he steamer left the landing-stage as George Alanders 
came on deck. He went forward, thinking lie should be 
less noticed. Fie sat on one of the gridiron-pattern seats 
affixed to the side of tlie ship, and he began to look at 
the dark waves which were tossing the stout boat about. 
There was no moon up, but the stars were shining, and 
he could see by their liglit the water tossing and tumbling 
about — short fierce waves, for the wind was blowing more 
than across the tide. These waves had a strange fascina- 
tion for the gazer ; each one seemed to try to reach him — 
liim particularly. They m.ight have been imbued with in- 
telligence, so viciously they rose and snapped at him. He 
could not get rid of this peculiar fancy — for a while could 
not turn his eyes from the angry but baffled foes. At last, 
by a great effort, he succeeded in forcing himself to look 
the other way ; but a strange nervousness came over him, 
lie longed to find himself safe on the opposite shore. He 
fixed his eyes as firmly as he could on the lights in the 
distance, and determined to let them look at nothing else. 
Yet all the while he thought of the waves at his back 
clamoring for him. 

It takes a very calm, bold man to turn his back to his 
foes yet not retreat. After a short time Manders felt the 
position growing intolerable. Fie must turn and face his 
enemies. Fie struggled with the desire until a stronger and 
a new one came upon him. He must see what the waves 
on the other side of the ferry-boat were doing. So he 
crossed the deck, and seating himself exactly opposite to 
his former station looked again at the water. 

Then a thrill of utter horror ran through him — he 
would have shrieked could he have found the power to do 
so. All he was able to accomplish was to wring his moist 
hands, and, with eyes starting from his head, lean over the 
side of the ship and gaze at what he saw below him. 

The waves were fiercer than ever — but, oh, sight of 
terror! he saw not only waves. There was a devil on each 
one, riding, dancing, or lying on the crest of it. Large 
devils on large waves and small devils on small waves, and 
every one was grinning, mouthing, mocking, and stretch- 
ing out his arms toward him. Their eyes were all like fire, 
the very hiss of the water was caused by its contact with 
their burning bodies. As far as he could see the dark 


21 


322 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


water it was peopled by devils; and far, far away 
through the darkness he could see their eyes gleaming. 
Hundreds, thousands, myriads ! And what were those 
great lights in the distance— those red and white lights to- 
ward which he knew the boat was forcing her way ? What 
were they but eyes of large, monstrous, stupendous devils, 
who were waiting for him to be delivered into their hands ? 

He gazed and gazed without power of turning away. 
Although only for minutes it seemed this sight had been 
before liim for hours. He began to recognize the devilish 
traits of many of those grim things around him. He saw 
each Vise with the wave, make its spring and fall back 
baffled, and when that particular one made another at- 
tempt he was able to distinguish it from the crew. But 
the boldest and most active of all — the one who leaped 
highest and oftenest, who rode on the greatest wave and 
came nearest to clutching its prey, had the face of the 
man lie had seen that morning leaving Sleeford Junction 
in search of him. He felt that this one must reach him at 
last. Yet, in spite of this, the devil whose appearance gave 
him the greatest shock of all was one with an awful, hope- 
less, but malignant face — a face in which he traced his own, 
feature for feature. There were many others whose faces 
were those of men he had known, but the two first men- 
tioned were his particular horror. 

Even if they did not seize him — were not those immense 
devils whose eyes were gradually growing larger, brighter, 
and fiercer, waiting for him — was he not going straight into 
their clutches ? 

For a short time it seemed as if that particular fiend 
with the face of the gentleman from London had disap- 
peared or grown weary with his exertions. He had now 
missed several turns, and something like self-congratula- 
tion swept through Manders’s delirium. Then, suddenly 
as they appeared, all the devils vanished ; the waves were 
leaping as fiercely as before, yet they were but waves. • The 
only devils left were the large bright-eyed ones in the dis- 
tance. That one with the red eye was his particular dread 
at the moment. If he could escape him all might be well. 

But there was something else to come. From the black 
waves by the side of the ship a thing rose — a ghastly, 
filthy thing, with long arms or suckers. One by one they 
came in sight and fastened on the hulk of the vessel, and 
the madman knew, although he had never met with or 
heard of such a being before this moment, that it was a 


A CARDhVAL SI'V. 


323 


devil-octopus. It threw out its slimy arms and drew its 
body slowly from the water. Its body was a face — the 
face of a man — of the very man he had seen this morning. 
Then, deliberately, but surely, inch by inch the awful 
creature crept up the side of the vessel, with a look of 
triumph on its face or body. Creeping upward, sure of 
its prey at last, for its prey could for the time move neither 
hand nor foot. Now it was almost within reach ; the next 
step, or propulsion from its arms, would enable it to ob- 
tain a firm hold on the gunwale, and then ! He seemed 
to feel those slimy suckers strangling him. He seized his 
stick, which was beside him, and hammered and beat at 
the creature — beat its uppermost arms away. Yet he was 
not safe — he must push it down — down — down until the 
water closed over it. He kneeled on the seat and craned 
over the side. The devil-octopus was retreating as slowly 
as it had advanced. H^ pushed and poked at it — he 
leaned further over — further yet — as far as he could go, 
but the thing was not yet submerged — further still he 
must reach — Ah, now you devil, now ! — 

A sailor who, although he had noticed him leaning over 
the side, liad attributed that attitude to perfectly natural 
but uncomfortable causes, made a rush as he saw him dis- 
appear, but he was too late to touch even the heel of his 
boot ; but the shouts of “man overboard,” and the cry of 
that man as he touched the water, rang out simulta- 
neously. 

The life-buoys were hurled from the stern, the steamer 
stopped, and the boat lowered. But the men who jumped 
into it knew they were bound on a fruitless errand. The 
man who had slipped over the side was nearly a mile away 
by now. It was night, and with this tide and wind it 
would be as much as the oarsmen could do to look after 
their own safety. Yet they went readily enough. 

They listened intently for another cry, but none came. 
Manders’s end had, after all, been an easy one — easier per- 
haps than Philip Bourchier’s. His last impressions were 
the struggle with that fell antagonist his delirium had 
raised up, and the contact with the cold, black water. 
Then, being a good swimmer, he struck out instinctively, 
even as one of the revolving floats of the paddle-wheels 
smote him full on the head, and there was an end of all his 
finely-constructed plots and schemes. 

The merry Severn tide took charge of him — carried him 


A CA RDIMA L SIN, 


3'24 

all around the Roads, across that basin of soft mud called 
the Swash, sent him down close past Passet Point and the 
Blacknore, took him a long way out past gay watering- 
places, played with him, washed him down cliannel and up 
channel, made sure that every breath was long gone from 
him before it restored him to the land — retained liim in its 
bosom until he was a gruesome sight and scarcely to be 
recognized. Then it released him, and Cap’en Martin, of 
the Mary Ann, Gloster pilot-boat No. 13, while scanning 
the channel for a ship in want of his services, saw not far 
off two black points rising above the water. So the Mary 
Ann went about and sailed down to those two black points 
which rode at some distance from each other, and found 
they were the heels of a drowned man. A rope with a 
running hitch was soon round them, and the Mary Ann 
seeing the channel, for the while, destitute of a ship, bore 
away to the nearest sea-coast place, with all that was left 
of George Manders lying on her little deck, decently cov- 
ered by an old tarpaulin. 

There was plenty found on the corpse to make it certain 
it was that of Manders, but there was not enough evi- 
dence to show it Was that of the man who fell from the 
ferry-boat several days before, although there was little 
reasonable doubt about it. The open verdict, “ Found 
drowned,” answered every purpose and saved trouble and 
expense. 

The ghastly remains were hid from sight in a church- 
yard near where they were brought to land— a plain stone, 
with the initials “ G. M.,” was placed on the grave, and 
Josephine was a widow. 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 

IN CALM WATER. 

Philip Bourchier had been dead more than three weeks. 
He had been laid, with all marks of regret and respect, in 
the family vault at Redton, by the side of the ancestors 
already enumerated, and other members of the Bourchier 
family who exercised no influence upon this story. Of all 
the large assemblage of tenants, mourners, dependants, re- 
lations, and friends which stood round the grave, there 
was only Allan who knew that the honors paid to his 


A CARDINAL SIN 


325 


father were rightly due to the man lying in that grave a 
short way off, with not a letter carved on the gray, plain 
headstone to hint at his name. Yet the papers in Allan’s 
possession told him the rightful owner of Redhills lay in 
that neglected grave. With a keen sense of right and 
wrong, a hatred to all subterfuge and concealment, he was 
much exercised as to what course to take. 

In the first place, it must be clearly understood that 
Philip Bourchier’s solemn assertion had acted exactly as 
he had calculated it would act. The solemn and repeated 
denial when death was staring him in the face, the bold 
summoning of Manders into his presence, that he might 
hear the lie Philip Bourchier had found nerve enough to 
speak with those lips so soon to be stilled forever, had 
amply sufficed to sweep away every fear and doubt from 
Allan’s mind. Manders’s collapse and abject appearance 
had well seconded Mr. Bourchier’s effort to right himself 
in his son’s eyes, and spare him the misery of thinking 
that he was the cold-blooded murderer of his wife’s father. 
Allan was certain that he had been told the very worst 
which had happened. ITe comprehended that some mis- 
take or some accident had cost John Boucher his life ; 
and he could easily understand how a proud man like his 
father, sensitive to the world’s opinion, and knowing how 
that world would construe his act, was to a certain extent 
placed at the mercy of the rascal who personated the dead 
man’s son, and who was able to inform Mr. Bourchier who 
it was had fallen a victim to mistake or unfortunate haste. 
Other things, such as his father tolerating the presence of 
the impostor at Redhills, of allowing Josephine to live 
with him a day after the cloven foot had so plainly showed 
itself, were now made clear to Allan. With such an accu- 
sation hanging over him — an accusation to repel which he 
had nothing but his own bare word, was it any wonder 
that Mr. Bourchier was compelled to make certain terms 
with this Digby or Manders ? — the more so when the first 
person to whom he would tell the tale would be John 
Boucher’s daughter — Allan’s wife ? 

It was well that Philip Bourchier had declared his in- 
nocence at a moment when it is impossible to believe that 
falsehood can come from the lips. His son was more than 
satisfied as to his innocence. 

Allan was now lord of Redhills, both by the terms of 
his father’s will and by the right of his wife. Old people 
on the country-side were saying “ he’d never make such a 


326 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


man as his grandfeather middle-aged people substitut- 
ed “feather” for “grandfeather;” while young people 
roundly expressed their opinion that “he’d lick the lot.” 
No doubt his father was similarly commented upon when 
he succeeded to the inheritance which had cost iiim so 
much to keep. However, in a very few days after Philip 
Bourchier’s death people talked of Allan as Mr. Bourchier, 
of Redhills. 'The titles of the dead prince fit the new one 
very naturally. 

But Redhills is without a prince at present. It is in the 
hands of servants. Mrs. Bourchier is at Shortlands with 
the Messiters ; while Allan, Frances, and Josephine are at 
a watering-place in Devonshire. 

Frances is convalescent, and will very soon be quite re- 
stored to health. To Allan she is looking more lovely 
than ever, although, terrible as it seems to have to record 
the fact in connection with her, she wears a wig. But the 
most beautiful woman is obliged to do that when the hair 
on her head is about a quarter of an inch in length ; and 
Mdlle. Francesca, with her experience, may be trusted to 
have selected a becoming one. 

These visitors — the two fair women and the good-look- 
ing young man — are a great puzzle to the inhabitants of 
the quiet little watering-place they have selected to so- 
journ at. From the loving demeanor of the taller of the 
ladies and the young man they might be a newly-married 
couple, had not the companionship of the third lady and 
the fact that all the party w^ere in deep mourning said other- 
wise. Yet the two first never seemed tired of each other’s 
society. No husband and wdfe in the first flush of the 
honeymoon could have been more devoted. The early 
summer days w^ent by, and each day the look of returning 
health grew more apparent on Frances’s face, wbile Jo- 
sephine, free and at peace, began to look much like a soft- 
ened, toned-down edition of the girl of eighteen, before 
she listened to the specious words of a rascal, and nearly 
WTecked the whole of her life. 

But now the particulars of George Manders’s end were 
known. Although the manner of his death made her 
shudder, Josephine could not force herself to commit the 
hypocrisy of pretending to regret him. To have wept or 
lamented for the man who for the last few years had made 
her life almost unbearable — the man from whom she was 
longing to be free, would have been falsehood. She might 
ha-ve wept for the loss of the hero she had once fallen 


A CARDIiVAL SIN. 


327 

down to and worshipped ; but these tears had been wept 
long and long ago ; no more were called for. 

She listened to ail the details of his death with a pale 
face but dry eyes — then, as Allan ceased speaking, she 
rose. 

“ Allan,” she said, he is dead. I will try in time to 
forgive him for the evil he has wrought. I cannot say 
one word of regret or shed one tear of grief ; but he was 
my husband, so I will say nothing more against liim. Let 
his name die. Let us never mention it among ourselves 
again.” 

She went to her room and prayed that in time she might 
he able to forgive him — and forget him. 

Now that Manders was dead and could trouble them no 
more, Allan decided it was better to pay the amount of 
the forged bill. To their world he liad been known only 
as Digby Bourchier, and Josephine’s husband. To explain 
that he W'as an impostor, and had no right to the name of 
Bourchier, might bring about complications. So the 
money, which would have left Manders free to scheme 
and plot at his leisure, was paid when its payment or non- 
payment mattered nothing to the principal party con- 
cerned. 

Yet if Allan and Frances were gravely happy during 
these balmy days, there was something on the mind of 
each. Allan had deferred a final decision as to what course 
to take respecting the strange news he had heard until 
Frances was quite well. He recoiled from the thought 
that he should, if he made a clean breast of it, be obliged 
to take his wife’s hand in his, look into her earnest eyes, 
and say, “ You have been seeking for the man who killed 
your father — that man was my father. It was an accident 
— a mistake, but the fact remains, John Boucher’s blood 
was on his hands. Will that come between us and our 
love ?” It was a painful task, and, as day by day, it wait- 
ed undone, staring him in the face, he began to ask himself 
if it were not a needless one. Innocent in intention as he 
knew his fatiier to be, tlie consequences of his hasty act 
had nearly shipwrecked his happiness. The knowledge 
of it must always be a grief to him. Why should he ask 
Frances to share it ? Why should he compel her to shud- 
der whenever she heard his father’s name mentioned ? 
He thought it all over by day, he lay awake considering it 
at night, and by this time had fully made up his mind to 
keep this tlnng a secret— his only secret — from his wife. 


328 


A CARDINAL SIN, 


He knew that had Manders lived he must have told her. 
He could not have risked the chance of his informing her. 
But Manders was dead, so that reason for speaking was 
gone. Josephine, he was sure, knew nothing, his mother 
or the other members of the family knew nothing. Al- 
though he did not suspect that the witness who had given 
such valuable intelligence to George Manders had died 
long ago, he could not help thinking it most probable that 
he, Allan, was the only person on earth who was aware 
of the true facts of the case. Why should he speak and 
make all his people unhappy ? 

He wronged no one by his silence. If Redhills and 
every thing else really belonged to his wife, marriage had 
made them his. The very portions bequeathed by his 
father to his sisters and brother would liave to be given 
by him, as Philip Bourchier had legally nothing to leave. 
The complication into which affairs would be thrown, made 
his brain whirl. Silence was the only possible way out of 
the difficulty. 

The thing which troubled him most was John Boucher's 
lying in an unhonored grave. If he told Frances that her 
father’s bones lay in that lowly spot, her affection would 
compel her to pay them proper honor, and all the world 
knew that his father had caused the man he shot to be 
buried there — and all the world would know if any altera- 
tion was made that the supposed highwayman was his 
wife’s father. No, in justice to everybody — in justice to 
his father’s honor, he must bear this burden of secrecy. 
He felt it would to a great extent cast a cloud over his 
perfect happiness ; but that cloud would be nothing com- 
pared to the deep gloom which would forever have shad- 
owed his life, had his father not been able to make that 
last, most important, and solemn declaration of his moral 
innocence in the terrible deed. With his own mind set at 
rest by this declaration, Allan felt that, in consideration of 
the interests involved, he was justified in keeping silence ; 
whereas, had there been crime, or even suspected crime, 
he would have been bound at any cost to reveal all he 
knew. 

Having so decided, he felt happier, but his self-debate 
had made him at times look moody and sad ; but these ap- 
pearances were easily accounted for by the sincere grief he 
felt for the loss of his father. 

Frances’s trouble was of another and entirely different 
kind. As soon as the fever left her brain, and she was 


A CARDIA^AL SI AT, 


329 


able to recall what had passed, the one thing which stood 
out most prominently of all was that, at a particular junct- 
ure, her voice had failed her. Although she comforted 
herself by remembering the strange state of mind she was 
in at the time, the hours she had passed without food or 
sleep, the strain she had brought to bear on her whole sys- 
tem, nevertheless there was a presentiment ever with her 
that all this did not quite account for her collapse. 

It was long before she could test the truth of this pre- 
sentiment — long before she could say to herself, “ I am 
strong again, and should be able to sing as well as ever ; ” 
but now, when she could assure Allan and Josephine that 
she never felt better in her lifetime, she knew that the 
day was come when she could frighten or flatter herself no 
longer. She had positively shrank from testing her voice 
until this morning, when, having secured a few moments 
alone, she had opened the piano and sang one of her favor- 
ite and most effective songs. At first all went fairly well ; 
if her performance did not quite satisfy her own exacting 
criticism, she could lay much of its shortcoming upon her 
recent illness and subsequent weakness. It was only when 
she came to the crescendo passages that she knew the ef- 
fort their execution cost her. She sat silent for a few 
minutes ; then, sighing deeply, placed another song in 
front of her, and as she sang it, knew that she had suc- 
ceeded far better with her first attempt than with this sec- 
ond one. Yet she tried one more, and, to her dismay, 
found herself absolutely unable to finish it. Could this 
be Mdlle. Francesca, who recently had enthralled audi- 
ences by those sweet sounds which had cost her little more 
trouble to bring forth than its song costs the nightingale ? 

She was feeling perfectly well and strong this morning. 
There was, she knew, so far as health was concerned, no 
reason why she should not sing as of yore. Her presenti- 
ment had not deceived her. There was something wanting 
— something gone wrong. She was the same Mdlle. Fran- 
cesca no longer. It was hard, very hard, to be compelled 
to confess this, after her years of labor, after the brief term 
of unchecked success, now to be called upon to give up 
fame and her art. 

She leaned her face on her hands, and the tears forced 
themselves through her closed fingers. Her thoughts 
were very bitter ones. So few women are able by their 
own gifts and exertions to attain to such a position as hers 
had been, that her distress can scarcely be wondered at. 


330 


A CARDINAL SJNT. 


She cherished no false hopes ; all along she felt this was 
coming — felt so certain of it that until now she had 
shunned the trial. Now she had learned the worst. This, 
then, was the end of that famous career she had promised 
herself ! 

Frances sat like this for some ten minutes ; then the 
door opened and Allan entered. She knew his step, but 
did not turn her head. She dropped her hands once more 
on the keys. 

“ Will you leave me, dear, for a little while ?” she said ; 
“ I am trying over something and want to be alone.” 

Allan, who knew she preferred practising alone, retraced 
his steps, with a laughing caution not to over-exert her- 
self. 

She sat thinking and thinking for another quarter of an 
hour, but Allan’s arrival had somewhat turned the course 
of her reflections. Gradually she grew more calm ; then, 
rising, she closed the piano quietly but sadly ; she put the 
music back into the portfolio, then standing in a musing 
attitude, she said with a serious smile, Allan will scarcely 
grieve ; perhaps, after all, it will be best for him — and for 
mfe.” 

With a lingering look she turned away. Mdlle. Fran- 
cesca had bidden adieu to her art. 

She went to her writing-case and drew out a letter. It 
was from her friend the manager, expressing sincere, if 
interested, hopes that she would soon be well enough to 
return to her professional duties ; also that the change in 
her husband’s condition would not induce her to abandon 
at the outset what promised to be the most glorious artis- 
tic career of the present day. 

The manager, if the truth were known, was having a very 
bad time of it, so far as Mdlle. Francesca was concerned. 
He considered it very doubtful whether the wife of Bour- 
chier, of Redhills, a country magnate, with ten thousand a 
year, would be allowed to tread the boards again. The 
only way of bringing this about was by appealing to her 
ambition. If he succeeded in inducing her to return, she 
would be a greater hit than ever. He was a shrewd man, 
and had studied “ that big stupid,” as Thackeray calls the 
public, for many years. 

This letter she must answer. It would not do to assert 
on her own authority that her voice had failed her ; so she 
wrote begging that the eminent specialist, who had once 
before attended her, might be sent down into Devonshire 


A CARDINAL SIN. 


331 


the next day. And her request made the manager’s heart 
sink into his boots. 

Having written her letter, she joined Allan and his sister, 
and spent the rest of the day in the usual way. She had 
swept away every trace of her distress, but she would tell 
Allan nothing of the discovery she had made until the doc- 
tor’s visit had been paid. Then she would accept her fate 
and murmur not. After all, it was not a very hard lot. 

Allan, who until she was well, had put aside all consid- 
eration as to whether Frances would now leave the stage 
or not, had been somewhat distressed at finding her practis- 
ing once more. He had been vainly hoping that she would 
come to him and say that for the future she was his wife 
and nothing more. He was trying to keep himself from 
asking her to yield to his wishes, but at times found the 
struggle a hard one. His promise had been that she should 
be free to act as she chose ; and even now, if she found 
that fame was necessary to her happiness, he would fulfil 
that promise. 

Frances, who knew nothing of her husband’s former in- 
terview with the doctor, was surprised at the expression 
which came over his face when she quietly informed him 
of the visit she expected the next da)^ She could not 
understand that look until Allan, taking her hand, told 
her of the prediction made by the clever man when he 
saw her on a previous occasion. Frances said nothing, 
but resigned herself to her fate. 

The scientist came next day, armed with his mirrors, 
arranged at various angles to enable him to peep and pry 
into throat mechanism. Sorry as he was at finding his 
prognostications verified, grave as he looked with the news 
he had to impart, he could not help the thrill of pro- 
fessional pride which ran through him. 

“And now the verdict?” said Frances, at last released 
from her strained attitude, and smiling as she looked at 
his solemn face. The doctor hesitated. 

“ It is a bad one. Will you hear it ?” 

“ Certainly,” said Frances. “ Tell me in a word. Shall 
I ever sing again ?” 

“ Yes, you will sing again ; but not yet.” 

“When? Tell me.” 

“You must have months, years even, of perfect rest. 
Then you may sing again — not unless.” 

Years of silence ! Why, she knew that in six months 
the fickle public would have almost forgotten her name. 


332 


A CAJWINAL S/JV. 


Yet she was quite calm, even smiling. The doctor won- 
dered how she could take the bad news so quietly. But 
he was a man wrapped up in his profession, and if he had 
ever heard, had forgotten, that Allan was so well endowed 
with the world’s gear. 

“Shall I ever sing as I sung before ?” asked Frances. 
“ Tell me the truth. I am not afraid to hear it.” 

“ Most probably you will, but only while you arc in per- 
fect health. If anything is amiss with you, the weakness 
will show itself.” 

“And I shall break down again, quite suddenly ?” 

“As you choose the words, I may use them — yes, you 
will.” 

Frances was silent for a few moments. She was think- 
ing of Allan. 

“Thank you,” she said, simply. “ I was anxious to hear 
your true opinion, or I should not have troubled you to 
come such a distance. Now I must ask you when you go 

back to town to see Mr. , the manager, and tell him 

all you have told me. You will do this ? ” 

“Certainly I will ; but it is a painful errand.” 

•The doctor went back by the next train, and as the sun 
was getting low Frances and Allan walked to a favorite 
spot where they could sit and watch the waves at their 
feet, and see far away the sun sinking into the sea. They 
were silent for a long time, but their hands were clasped. 
Allan did not ask the result of the interview with the doctor. 
He knew that Frances’s silence was owing to it. At last 
she raised her head and looked him full in the face. Her 
eyes were moist, but her smile was the sweetest he had 
ever seen, even on that fair face. They were alone ; the 
sea in front of them, the tall sheltering cliff at their backs. 
She threw her arm round her husband’s neck and kissed 
him. 

“Allan, dear, when shall we go back to our home. Red- 
hills ? ” 

“Whenever you like, my wife.” 

“ We shall be very happy, Allan. I think our home is 
tlie most beautiful in the world. Shall I be able to play 
the part of a country gentleman’s wife? You will teach 
me what to do, and not be impatient at my short-comings ? ” 

Fie kissed her rapturously. Her words told him that 
his dream of happiness was to become real life. He told 
her how he had longed for the time to come when she 


A CARDI.VAL SIRT. 


333 


would forsake her profession — when he and he alone would 
be lord and master — when he should see her living and 
reigning in the old country home. He kissed her again 
and thanked her for the sacrifice she was making. She 
smiled. 

It is scarcely the sacrifice you think. It may be years 
before I could sing again. At first, Allan, it seemed hard 
— a woman who has tasted triumph never likes to forego it. 
But, my husband, believe me, when I say that now — now 
that all is settled — I would not if it were in my power to do 
so, change things. It is you who shall win the triumphs — 
it is your name that shall some day be in the lips of men — 
and I — I am your wife and shall share every success with 
you. Allan, believe me I am not spoiled by the applause 
I have had showered on me. I can stand by your side a 
humble and a dutiful wife, and, my darling, I can love you 
as no wife ever loved her husband. Let us go back to our 
home and begin our new life.” 

They rose, and the eyes of both husband and wife glist- 
ened in the sunset glow. They passed hand-in-hand up 
the cliff — hand-in-hand up the narrow path which skirted 
those great Devonshire tors — they were hand-in-hand when 
Josephine, coming in search of them, met them. And as 
she scolded them for staying away so long, and laughed 
at them for their child-like way of walking, a sigh followed 
her laugh as she contrasted their happiness with her own 
lot. 

But Josephine Bourchier will not be unhappy all her 
life. She is now little more than a girl. When the re- 
membrance of those years of sorrow has passed entirely or 
almost entirely from her mind — when she begins to \von- 
der if it were not a painful dream — her innate gayety will 
assert itself, and she will be known as one of the most be- 
witching little women in the county of Westshire. So be- 
witching that many wooers will come to her — and when 
she chooses again she will choose well, and life will give 
her husband, children, health, and riches ; all, in fact, of 
the good gifts that life can give. The past will fade away, 
and, although its bitter experience may leave her a less 
romantic woman, she will be better, more earnest, and more 
sensible. 

And Frances will find how little after all being deprived 
of the breath of fame costs her. How every upward step 
of her husband’s on his way to the career of a statesman 


334 


A CARDINAL SIN 


is a greater triumph to her than the applause of enthusi- 
astic audiences. How sweet life is when man and wife 
have but one common interest! What a fair place Eng- 
land is to live in, particularly when one’s home is in tliat 
county of England called Westshire, and when Redhills, 
in that county, is one’s home ! What an enviable position 
the wife of a man like Allan holds! And, by and by, she 
will wonder how she could have thought even this life per- 
fection without that toddling boy and girl who are only 
less dear to her than her husband. And she will be very, 
very happy. And, in time, her power of song in all its 
magnificence will return to her. She will not, of course, 
be quite sure that her refound treasure could stand the 
wear and tear of public life, but she will feel that any 
moment she could step upon the boards, and, if only for a 
time, regain lier former conquests. She will feel that she 
has sacrificed something for the sake of hex husband, and 
will be all the happier that it was in her power to do so. 

Even her desire to learn her father’s fate will be quieted. 
She will go one day with Josephine to the house at Shep- 
herd’s Bush, and as Josephine is collecting little personal 
matters she wishes to keep, those relics of John Boucher, 
bought by George Manders from Mr. James Stokes, the 
poacher, wall come to light. And Frances, as she sees 
them, will turn pale, but she will control herself and say 
nothing, although coupling this discovery with the mur- 
derous nature Manders had so clearly shown to her, she 
will be fully convinced that he was her father’s murderer. 
His reasons for the crime she cannot, will not, be able to 
guess at. She will not add to Josephine’s dreary recollec- 
tions by telling her of the suspicion ; she will not breathe 
it to Allan, but in her own mind she will be certain as to 
its correctness. 

And Allan. The career of a young ambitious man aim- 
ing at political distinction is hard to predict in these 
strange times. But he will be in Parliament very soon, 
not as member of the little borough he first thought of, 
but, like his father before him, knight of the shire. He 
may succeed in his ambition, or he may fail. He will 
bring talent, purpose, hard work and riches to aid him — 
so should succeed. At present he is looked upon as a ris- 
ing young man of his party, but, as we all know, his party 
is out in the cold. When the tables are turned Allan 
Bourchier’s chance will come, and most likely he will be 


A CARDINAL SIN 


335 


man enough to seize it and make the most of it. But, suc- 
ceed or fail, he will be the same to his wife. 

There is but one cloud on his sunshine. He has a secret 
from his wife. He has never doubted the wisdom, or even 
the justice, of keeping that terrible accident a secret ; but 
with the perfect confidence which exists between them on 
every other point, it weighs upon him, and gives him many 
a sorrowful moment. He can not bear to think of her 
passing that humble grave in Redton churchyard utterly 
Ignorant as to who lies there. He can not bear to think 
that she does not know he is indebted to her for every 
thing he possesses. And as the years go by and he sees 
the love in her true eyes beaming without a sign of grow- 
ing less, the weight on his mind grows heavier and heav- 
ier. 

But he knows that nearly every man in this world must 
have some thorn in the flesh ; so he can only sigh and wish 
that things were otherwise. 

But I, who* know Allan Bourchier intimately, who can 
read the man’s every thought, share every emotion of his, 
detect ev^ery slowly forming resolution, and tell where 
every purpose of his mind will lead him to, have no hes- 
itation in saying that when years have passed, when the 
children are growing up around them, when they who 
needed nothing but love to bind them are bound by every 
chain that time, joy, trouble, fortune, and home can forge, 
Allan will one day tell his wife all he knows of the fate of 
John Boucher ; will tell her of Manders’s accusation, of 
his father’s fears, which placed liim at the villain’s mercy ; 
of his own anguish when he was told the truth ; and last 
of all of Ills delight at hearing those solemn words which 
showed him that the deed was unintentional — and, having 
told, all the weight will be off his mind forever. 

And Frances, whatever she may feel, however she may 
in her inmost heart doubt what a son was bound to be- 
lieve, will bear herself bravely. She will lift her eyes won- 
deringly and dreamily and look at Allan. She will not even 
chide him for his silence. She will see away across the 
green lawn their children merry in their sports. She will 
take her husband’s hand, she will kiss him, and say, “My 
love, my Allan, even liad it been the worst, it should not 
have come between you and me.” And Allan will be very 
happy. 

But that evening and many other evenings Frances will 


A CAR DIATAL S/N. 


335 

Steal down to Redton churchyard, and will weep over that 
grave, on which she dare not put a flower, or Cause a name 
to be inscribed. She will never broach the subject again 
to Allan. Perhaps part of the burden Allan has lifted from 
his shoulders will fall upon hers. It may be she will never 
be quite so happy as she was before she learned the truth. 

But then a woman is always willing and ready, and often 
expects to suffer something for the sake of the man she 
loves. 


THE END. 


ificarks the women of our households when they undertake tc make their 
homes bright and cheery. Nothing deters them. Their weary work may 
be as long as the word which begins this paragraph, but they prove their 
regard for decent homes by their indefatigability. What a pity that any 
of them should add to their toil by neglecting to use Sapolio. It reduces 
the U.bor of cleaning and scouring at least one-hall lOo. a cake- Sold 
kEl jrooera, 

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MARIE HOWLAND. 


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in the growth of the labor question. It should serve as the manual for 
organized labor in its present contest, since its teachings will as surely 
lead to the destruction of the wages system as the abolition movement 
lead to that of chattel slavery. 


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Mudfog Papers, The, etc., No. 270 10 

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Mysterious Island, 3 Pts., No. 185, ea, .,16 

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My Novel, 3 Parts, No. 271, each 20 

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Nabob, The, by A. Daudet, No. 615. . ..26 
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New Abelard, The, No. 318 20 

Newcomes, The, 2 Parts, No. 211, each.20 
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each 20 

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each 15 

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439 30 

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690 20 

Oliver Goldsmith, by Black, No. 2S5....10 

Oliver’s Bride, by Oliphant, No. 602 10 

Oliver Twist, by Dickens, No. 10 20 

One False, Both Fair, No. 269 .-20 

Other People’s Money, No, 120 20 

'f‘Our Fathers Have Told Us,” Ruskin, 

No. 679 15 

Our Mutual Friend, 2 Parts, No. 228, 

each 20 

Outre-Mer, by Longfellow, No. 2 20 

Over the Summer Sea, No. 414 20 

P-apa’s Own Girl, by Marie Howland, No. 

634 SO 

Paradise Lost, by Milton, No. 389 20 

Paris Sketches, No. 229 .,15 

Parisians, The, 2 Parts, No. 259, each. 20 

Partisan, The, by Simms, No. 040 30 

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Precaution, by Cooper, No. 601.. 20 

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603 Border Beagles, by W. Gr. Simms. .30 

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695 Wedded and Parted, by B. M, Clay.lO 

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697 'I he Forayers, by Simms,. 30 

698 The Mistletoe Bough, M.E.Braddon.SiO 

699 Self or Bearer, Walter Besant .. .10 

700 In Cupid’s Net, by B. M. Clay 10 

701 Lady Darner’s Secret, B. M. Clay., 20 

702 Charlemont, by W. G. Simms ... .30 

7lJ3 Eutaw, by W. G. Simms 30 

TOl Evolution, Rev. C. F. Deems, D.D.20 
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707 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t I. 30 

708 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’tII..30 

709 Woman against Woman, by Holmes. 20 

710 Picciola, by J. X. B. Saintine 10 

711 Undine, by Baron de la Motto 

Fouque 10 

712 Woman, by August Rebel 30 

713 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t III. 30 

714 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P’t IV.30 

715 A Cardinal Sin, by Hugh Con way, 20 

716 A Crimson Stain, Annie Bradshaw. 20 

717 ACountry Gentleman, Mrs. Oliphant. 20 

718 A Gilded Sin, by B. M, Clay. ,. . . .10 

719 Rory O’More, by Samuel Lover.... 20 

720 Between Two Loves, B. M. Clay... 20 

721 Lady Branksmere, by The Duchess. 20 

722 The Evil Genius, by Wilkie Collins.20 

723 Running the Gauntlet, by Yates. . .20 

724 Broken to Harness, Edmund Yates.20 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s Love, Margaret Lee.. 25 

726 Austin Eliot, by Henry Kingsley.. 20 

727 For Another’s Sin, by B. M. Clay.. 20 

728 The Hillyars and Burtons, Kingsley 20 

729 In Prison and Out, by Stretton 20 

730 Romance of a Young Girl, by Clay.20 

731 Leighton Court, by Kingsley .20 

732 Victory Deane, by Cecil Griffith. ,20 

733 A Queen amongst Women, by Clay.lO 

734 Vineta, by E. Werner... 20 

735 A Mental Struggle, The Duchess.. 20 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn, by H. Kingsley., 30 

737 The Haunted Chamber, “Duchess’MO 

738 A Golden Dawn, by B. M. Clay 10 

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740 A Bitter Atonement, by B. M. Clay.20 

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742 Social Solutions No. 1, by Howland.lO 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance, by Holmes. 20 

744 Evelyn’s Folly, by B. M. Clay 20 

745 Living or Dead, by Hugh Conway.. 20 

746 Beaton’s Bargain. Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

747 Social Solutions, No. 2, by Howland.lO 

748 Our Roman Palace, by Benjamin. ,.20 

749 Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy. .20 

750 Somebody's Story, by Hugh Conway.lO 

751 King Arthur, by Miss Mulock 20 

752 Set in Diamonds, by B. M. Clay,. , .20 

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754 A Modern Midas, by Maurice Jokai.20 

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756 Conspiracy, by Adam Badeau 25 

757 Doris’ Fortune, by P. Warden. ... 10 

758 Cynic Fortune, by D. C. Murray... 10 

759 Foul Play, by Chas. Reade 26 

760 Fair AVomen, by Mrs. Forrester. . . .20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part I., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

762 Social Solutions, No. 4, by Howland.lO 

763 Moths, by Ouida . .20 

764 A Fair Mystery, by Bertha M. Clay.20 

765 Social Solutions, No. 5, by Howland.lO 

766 Vixen, by Miss Braddon. 20 

767 Kidnapped, by R. L. Stevenson.. . .20 

768 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde, by R. L. Stevenson.. 10 

769 Prince Otto, byR. L. Stevenson. . .10 

770 The Dynamiter, byR. L. Stevenson. 20 

771 The Old Mam’selle’s Secret, by E. 

Marlitt 20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part I., by Sue.20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part II., by Sne.20 

773 Put Yourself in His Place, by Reade. 20 

774 Social Solutions, No. 6, by Howland.lO 

775 The Three Guardsmen, byDumas.20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part I., by Sue.20 

776 The Wandering J ew. Part II., by Sue. 20 

777 A Second Life, by Mrs. Alexander.20 

778 Social Solutions, No. 7, by Howland.lO 

779 My Friend Jim, by W. E. Norris ..10 

7'SO Bad to Beat, by Hawley Smart 10 

781 Betty’s Visions, by Broughton 15 

782 Social Solutions, No. 8, by Howland.lO 

783 The Octoroon, by Miss Braddon,..,20 

784 Les Miserables, Part I., by Hugo. .20 
784 Les Miserablcs, Part II., by Hugo. 20 

784 Les Miserablcs, Part III., by Hugo .20 

785 Social Solutions, No. 9, by Howland.lO 

786 Twenty Years After, by Dumas .... 20 

787 A Wicked Girl, by Mary Cecil Hay. 10 

788 Social Solutions, No.lO, by Howland.lO 

789 Charles O’Malley, P’t I., by Lever. 20 

789 Charles O’Malley, P"t II., by Lever. 20 

790 Othmar, by OuLda 20 

791 Social Solution8,No.ll,by Howland.lO 

792 Her Week’s Amusement, by “The 

Duchess” 10 

793 New Arabian Nights, by Stevenson.20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, P’t I , by Lever.20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, P’t II., by Lever.20 

795 Social Solutions,No.l2, byHowland.lO 

796 Property in Land, by Henry George,15 

797 A Phantom Lover, by Vernon Lee. 10 
T98 The Prince of the Hundred Soups, 

by Vernon Lee 10 

799 Maid, Wife, or Widow? by Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

800 Thoms and Orange Blossoms, by 

B. M. Clay ....10 

801 Romance of a Black Veil, by Clay.lO 

802 Lady Valworth's Diamonds 10 

803 Love’s Warfare, by B. M. Clay 10 

804 Madolin’s Lover, by B. M. Clay. . . .20 

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